


Survival Instinct

by mataglap



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Monster Hunters, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Denial, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Monster Hunter Fails At His Job, Resolved Sexual Tension, Spooky, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:00:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22417375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mataglap/pseuds/mataglap
Summary: McCree takes a new contract. It's pretty decent as contracts go: the pay is good, the perks even better, and he's got two competent companions to fight at his side when the monsters come.Then a third companion arrives and ruins everything.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 81
Kudos: 519





	1. Chapter 1

The war council is almost boring enough to make McCree regret taking the job.

If it wasn't for the lord's presence, he'd put his boots up on the table, just to see if at least one of the arguing officials would shut up. Right on top of that ancient dusty map, mud-caked heels and all. The thing has to be as old as the castle itself. The marshal would likely drop of apoplexy on the spot.

A bit extreme, but desperate times call for desperate measures. McCree gives it serious consideration when even the lord's eyes begin to glaze over.

In the end, all he allows himself is a drawn-out, quiet sigh. It's not even that the pay is good. It's the room he's got all to himself, with a blazing hearth and a bed piled high with warm quilts. It's the best night's sleep he's had in months and the hearty breakfast he's had in the kitchens, and the cozy stables for the horse. Winter is coming and he's far away from anywhere he could pretend to call home; now that he's had a taste of sir Wilhelm's hospitality, he knows damn well he won't do anything dumb to lose it. Even if it means sitting here listening to idiots argue with each other.

Of course there's still the risk he'll offend the lord simply by falling asleep. After the second barely suppressed yawn, McCree lets his gaze wander, desperate for something interesting to focus on. On the opposite side of the table, the so-called alchemist has clearly arrived to the same conclusion, judging by the way she's glancing at her lap and the book she must be hiding there. Her large and surly companion chose an even better option and hasn't shown up to the council at all. That, or Ana drew the short straw. Sure would be nice to work with a partner — not that McCree wouldn't be the one sitting here even if Gabriel was present. He lets out a quiet huff at that thought, and Ana looks up from her book, meets his gaze and winks conspiratorially.

At least he can console himself with the knowledge he's not the only one struggling: the marshal all but throws a huge leather-bound tome onto the table and half the room jumps in their seats, lord himself included. A truly impressive cloud of dust billows from the map in the wake of that impact, and the way it swirls in the pale rays of late autumn sun is more interesting than anything else in the room. McCree leans forward on folded arms, as much as possible while maintaining a pretense of decorum anyway, and divides his attention between the dust motes dancing in the sunlight and the increasingly bulging veins on the marshal's forehead.

He's about to stifle another jaw-cracking yawn when the door to the grand hall starts opening, and his left forearm throbs.

The surge of adrenaline instantly clears his mind, straightens his spine, makes his hand twitch before he remembers he's practically unarmed. There's no yelling, though, no sounds of fighting, so it can't be an open attack yet — and there's nothing alarming beyond the door when it opens, just the seneschal, talking quickly and quietly to another man at his side.

The man must have only just arrived, because McCree would definitely remember his face if he saw it before. Traveling clothes, mud-spattered cloak, stubble above the line of his beard — not only just arrived, then, but ushered here straight from the road. Well built, bulky even under the layers. Armed, with an unstrung bow strapped to his back and a quiver full of arrows. To all appearances he's the mercenary they've been told to expect, the last member of their party of four… except that when he enters the room, McCree's forearm throbs again in clear warning.

"Hanzo, master of the bow," the seneschal announces formally before proceeding with lengthy introductions.

McCree stands up with the others, keeps his posture relaxed and focuses on identifying the threat. At least he can scratch 'vampire' off the list straight away: the skies are clear for once and the chamber has tall windows, and the sun shines through one of them directly at the door. The newcomer reacts to the bright light in his face with nothing more than a squint. At first glance, there's nothing visibly unnatural about him. Not good.

"…Jesse McCree, a monster hunter of world renown."

McCree's attention snaps back to the conversation. His reputation probably doesn't reach _that_ far, but he's not going to complain. "At your service," he says smoothly, stopping himself at the last moment from tweaking the brim of the hat he's not wearing.

The archer holds his gaze briefly, gives a shallow bow and turns to the next person. If he knows about the amulets embedded in McCree's forearm, knows that McCree is on to him, he doesn't show it.

After the introductions have concluded, the lord seizes the opportunity to adjourn the council with barely concealed enthusiasm. As everyone files out, McCree considers asking him for a private audience before deciding to keep his mouth shut for now. Sir Wilhelm has a temper and does not take kindly to his decisions being questioned, and McCree has no proof yet, even though he knows without a doubt that the lord's fourth hire is not a human.

* * *

Hanzo the archer looks and acts like a perfectly normal person, which significantly narrows the list of possibilities. He can't be a werewolf or a shapeshifter of any kind, or he wouldn't have picked up the silver lid of a soup vase at dinner. He's obviously not undead, or he wouldn't be able to mask the smell. On the off chance he's dealing with a particularly sun-resistant vampire, McCree even goes to the trouble of checking his reflection, but a strategically placed polished silver tray reveals nothing out of the ordinary. With all the simple and easy options out of the way, all McCree can do is keep watching, look for subtler clues, and wait for the archer to make a misstep.

And the clues are plenty, if one cares to look.

For one, despite the simple name, Hanzo is definitely no commoner. No titles, not even a last name or a birthplace, and yet he dresses in silks and carries himself with the effortless arrogance of someone of noble birth. When the war council gathers again, he gets away with comments that would surely get McCree kicked out back to the road, and in the evening of the second day, at dinner, he even dares to question the truthfulness of one of sir William's tall tales of past exploits. The lord just roars with laughter instead of having him thrown into a cell, and McCree tries hard not to be impressed by the sheer audacity. Only a man not used to talking to his superiors can have a tongue this sharp.

Then there's the way Hanzo looks. A mercenary has no business being this goddamn pretty. Monsters, on the other hand, are always either hideous or beautiful, and the archer falls squarely into the latter category. And even if he was born a man with no magic involved in his appearance, he still doesn't look like someone who lives by the sword, but rather like someone who dwelled in a palace and never stepped out his whole life. McCree's got more tricks up his sleeve than a common sellsword, and he's still collected a bunch of scars as parting gifts from his kills; Hanzo doesn't look a day older than him, and he doesn't have a single scratch on his face.

One thing is certain: whatever he might be, he is no coward either. Whether he notices he's being watched or not, he doesn't seem perturbed at all by the presence a monster hunter. McCree does put moderate effort into being at least somewhat subtle, but even if he's successful, his reputation alone should be enough to unsettle the archer a bit. Apparently it's not; either he doesn't care about staying under one roof with a well-known hunter, or he's very good at pretending he doesn't. McCree does catch a few glances in his direction, but they seem curious rather than wary, and Hanzo always looks away with a perfectly disinterested expression. McCree can never quite decide whether the disinterest is feigned or not.

Maybe Hanzo is trying to figure out whether McCree knows. Or maybe not, maybe he's utterly confident in his human disguise. It is, after all, convincing enough that McCree could almost believe he was mistaken, except his amulet has never been wrong before, and it reacts without fail whenever the archer is nearby.

* * *

The evening of the third day leaves McCree with only one kind of monster left on the list.

He leans back in the chair, closes his eyes with a groan and rubs his face. Creatures driven by hunger or rage are as uncomplicated as their motivations, and fighting them is simple enough. Demons are different: cruel, insidious, manipulative, subtle when they want to be and always a pain in the ass, not least because of the people they've enthralled usually ready to defend them to the death.

Except a demon selling its services as a mercenary makes no sense. It's too straightforward. Too simple. Demons are drawn to power, they become advisors and consorts to rulers, maybe commanders if they particularly enjoy shedding blood. Not lowly sellswords. Why would a demon ever bother with hard and unpleasant work?

On the other hand, it would certainly explain both Hanzo's appearance and his brazen behavior. Maybe he's spying for the witch who's supposed to attack the castle, or maybe he's planning something bigger, playing a longer game. He's certainly managed to gain the lord's favor already, and not just that: Ana appears to enjoy his presence, even though she must know by now he's not what he seems to be, and even Jack, who wouldn't give McCree the time of day at first, treats the archer with something akin to respect.

And then there's McCree himself, fixated on him for the better part of three days. Granted, it's because of the amulet's continuous warnings, and not because of the way Hanzo acts, or talks, or looks.

Well… mostly.

The second amulet in McCree's arm is supposed to protect his mind from unwanted magic influence. He opens his eyes, raises his forearm slightly, runs his fingers over the inscriptions on the scuffed protective plate. There's no reason for it to suddenly have stopped working. If Hanzo knew about the amulets and possessed the kind of power needed to suppress them, surely he would have silenced the one that detected him in the first place.

Wouldn't he?

Some time later, after at least an hour of tossing and turning in bed, McCree gives up and rises to dig in his bags. There is a way to check if an item has magic properties. It's not cheap, requires some of the most potent and expensive of his precious few ingredients — but he hesitates for only a moment. Ingredients can be replenished. His mind, not so much.

The spell confirms that the magic in the amulet holds strong. The knowledge doesn't help him fall asleep.

* * *

He wakes up in a strangely foul mood for a hunter who finally caught scent of his prey.

Knowing that Hanzo is most likely a demon is only half of the problem. There's still the question of verifying it without drawing attention. McCree can hardly walk up to him and upend a bowl of holy water over his head; even if the archer somehow lets him get that close, there's still a chance he's not a demon after all, and he needs to remain oblivious of McCree's suspicions until after they've been confirmed.

McCree knows perfectly well what to do, of course. He's done it before. It's just that he hates it: he's a hunter, not a goddamn poisoner. Still, the method is tried and true, so in the morning, after a prolonged breakfast in the kitchens, he finally sets out on a search for holy water.

An hour later he's exactly where he started, except in an even worse mood. There's no chapel in the castle, not even a small altar, and not a single priest to be seen. Sir Wilhelm, as it turns out, doesn't limit himself to antagonizing witches. An interrogated servant shares the story in a gleefully scandalized whisper: it's been months since the last chaplain packed his things and left after a _difference of opinions_ loud enough to echo throughout the castle. The nearest church is in a village a couple of miles away, and leaving is the last thing McCree wants to do now, with the threat of an imminent attack looming over the castle and a demon gaining more of the lord's favor every passing hour.

Still, it's not as if he's got any other options, unless he wants to stand aside and watch as the demon weaves its schemes unopposed.

He shivers the moment he steps into the courtyard. The sun hasn't shown its face since the very first day, and this morning is particularly miserable, dark and cold, the sky overcast with heavy clouds and remnants of last night's fog lingering above the cobblestones. He's buttoning up his coat on the way to the stables, longing resentfully for the fires back at the castle, when he spies a flash of bright white out of the corner of his eye. There's a square of packed dirt outside the stables, used by the castle guard for sparring and practice, and somebody is there, heedless of the weather. McCree recognizes the silhouette instantly. Nobody else moves like the archer does.

Hanzo is alone, punching and kicking the air like he's attacking an invisible enemy. It must be a fighting technique of some kind, but it looks almost like a strange dance: every step calculated, every move graceful and fluid. Dressed in white and red, in stark contrast with the bleakness of stone and dirt that surround him, with wisps of fog swirling around him as he moves, he looks otherworldly. Unreal. Like one of the illusions that dance in the marshes and lure unwary travelers off the road at night.

McCree only remembers he's supposed to be going somewhere when he shivers hard enough for his teeth to chatter.

The stable walls protect him from further temptation until he's saddled the horse. He manages not to glance at the practice square until he's almost to the gate, but then he falters and looks over his shoulder one last time before the courtyard disappears out of sight. The white figure in the distance kicks the air, jumps, lands softly in a crouch and stays there, motionless like a beast preparing to pounce.

McCree is too far now to make out Hanzo's features, but suddenly he's sure the archer is looking right at him.

The horse, bless her, tosses her head with a snort and paws the ground, breaking the spell. McCree swears under his breath, gives her a well deserved pat on the neck and rides out with renewed resolve.

The rest of the trip goes unexpectedly smoothly. The clouds don't disperse, but the rain doesn't come either, and the roads stay dry enough that he can ride at a decent speed. The old priest tending to the small village church not only doesn't object to the font being drained, but he insists enthusiastically on blessing the filled flask, McCree's weapons and McCree himself, for good measure. The witch is considerate enough not to have launched an attack in McCree's absence, and even the weather has improved somewhat by the time he rides through the castle gate again with a flask of holy water bobbing at his belt.

The training ground is empty and the morning fog has lifted. The magic is gone. The courtyard is gloomy and shabby again, filled only with servants carrying out their mundane duties, and even the air smells of rotting wood and horse shit. For a brief moment McCree hates demons, his job and the world at large for how most of the beautiful things in his life turn out to be monsters.

* * *

Nobody supervises the flagons of wine opened for airing before dinner. McCree doesn't even need to create a diversion when he walks into the kitchens. A few seconds, and the emptied flask disappears back under his coat. Good thing sir Wilhelm doesn't keep any ambitious relatives at court, or he wouldn't have lived to reach his age.

It's done. Three days of work about to come to fruition. Except the thrill of the hunt doesn't come, and all he really wants is to get it over with. Maybe get drunk after.

He takes the long route to the dining hall and drags his feet to avoid appearing too early, and only turns the corner and enters when sir Wilhelm's booming voice starts echoing through the corridors. The effort turns out futile, because the archer still hasn't arrived. The lord is in a good humor, it seems, laughing at something so loudly that the flames dance on candlesticks halfway down the table, and McCree's arrival goes unnoticed. Probably for the better, because Ana raises her eyebrows questioningly from her place of honor at the lord's side and McCree realizes he's wearing an expression that would sour anyone's mood.

Such a stupid slip. Could have spooked the demon. The sooner this is over, the better.

By the time Hanzo enters the hall, McCree has assumed his best bored face. Hanzo gives him a nod of greeting before taking a seat and McCree returns it, and freezes when Hanzo's eyes focus on him again after briefly scanning the room. Has he given himself away after all?

"You look unwell," Hanzo says lightly, leaning back in his chair. He's perfectly at ease, immaculate in his blue silks except for that one lock of hair that always seems to escape its place, and for a moment McCree hates him so fiercely he has trouble keeping his voice even.

"Just one of those days," he replies curtly.

Hanzo hums in acknowledgement. A heartbeat, two, and his gaze finally slides away.

McCree exhales, but the relief doesn't come. A serving maid passes by, and Hanzo extends his goblet with a polite incline of his head. McCree's stomach twists. He's suddenly seized with an awful feeling that he made a terrible, irrevocable mistake.

Hanzo raises the goblet to his lips. McCree holds his breath and stares, all subtlety abandoned.

Hanzo doesn't scream or choke. He doesn't burst into flame or change into a monster on the spot. He just lowers the goblet and glances inside with a small frown, raises his eyebrows and takes another careful sip. This time he tilts his head a little and purses his lips thoughtfully, as if trying to recognize the taste. He doesn't look like a demon that's been served holy water, he looks like someone who's just discovered a new and interesting flavor, and right as McCree slumps in his chair with the strangest mixture of frustration and relief, Hanzo makes sudden eye contact.

It's too late to look away. McCree makes an attempt to look innocent and disinterested, deeply aware he's too rattled to succeed at either. Hanzo watches him for a while, face impassive except for slightly narrowed eyes — and then he suddenly smiles, wide and brilliant and _smug_ , and raises the goblet in a silent toast before emptying it all in one go.

McCree watches the movement of his throat before he finally remembers he's supposed to look away.

Hanzo doesn't say anything, but he keeps smiling for the rest of the evening. It's a small, secretive smile, like he's been made privy to a joke nobody else in the room understands. McCree knows very well that _he's_ the joke; after the tide of disproportionate relief has passed, he's left with nothing but a whole lot of frustration. No demon, no matter how powerful, can chug holy water without batting an eyelid, so Hanzo can't be one — but he's still not a human, and McCree doesn't have the slightest idea what else he could be.

And whatever he is, McCree should stop fucking _staring_ at him, which he utterly fails to do. Worse, he fails not to be caught at it. Hanzo's eyes glitter with amusement and his smile grows a little wider every time he notices McCree looking away too late, and the angry knot in McCree's chest grows hotter and tighter, and eventually he excuses himself with a headache and leaves before the candles have burned even halfway down.

The memory of that smile haunts him even as he lies in bed. At least when he finally falls asleep, the archer stays out of his dreams.

* * *

The next day brings no change. The sky is still overcast, the air is still cold, and McCree still fails to keep his mind on the job he's been hired for. In his defense, there's nothing left to do apart from waiting for the witch to make her move, and searching the castle library for even the smallest hint of what kind of a creature Hanzo might be feels like a better option than sitting around stewing in frustration. He ends up stewing anyway, because the most interesting the library has to offer is a stack of crumbling herbariums and old recipe books, and when the need to do something useful becomes too much, he sets out to do a round of the walls.

He doesn't get further than ten paces from the door. Hanzo is in the courtyard again, but this time he's not training and he's very much not alone: there's a crowd of an audience around the practice square, with even the lord himself present, sat on a folding stool like he's presiding over a tourney. With a couple of officials and Ana with Jack watching from a bench and a number of guards and servants gathered around the sides, it really does look like an improvised tourney, especially that as McCree watches, Ana's silent companion shrugs off his coat, rolls up his sleeves and steps into the square.

The fight is nothing like the dance McCree had witnessed yesterday. There's nothing graceful about it, for a start. It's just good old-fashioned grappling, except Hanzo and Jack circle and size each other up for ages before they finally engage. Unsurprisingly, Jack ends up pinned to the ground first — but then he springs to his feet with the speed befitting someone half his age, and he almost manages to get Hanzo in a surprise chokehold before the archer slips out of his grasp. The lord bellows encouragement and the crowd starts cheering, shouts and whistles erupting after either side gains an advantage. Muddied and mussed, with his clothes in disarray and a feral grin growing on his face, Hanzo no longer looks too perfect to be human, and McCree couldn't tear his eyes away if lightning struck the ground at his feet.

After Jack finally yields, Hanzo helps him up and turns his head to look right at McCree, as if he somehow knew the entire time where McCree was standing. He's not even breathing heavily — in fact, McCree's not convinced he's breathing at all. Hanzo straightens, holds his gaze with a smirk, and gives him the tiniest of nods before turning to bow respectfully to the lord.

The smirk and the nod feel like mockery. In all his years as a hunter, McCree has never felt helpless, and he's not going to start now. It's time they have a talk.

* * *

After a few hours of fruitless searching, McCree starts wondering if the archer somehow managed to read his mind. There's no other good reason for him to disappear right after McCree's made the decision to confront him. He's not in the courtyard, not in the common rooms with the others, not in the kitchens, not on the walls; he might be hiding in his chamber, McCree supposes, or perhaps he's decided to turn invisible and mock him behind his back.

There's also a chance he took offense at being served holy water and he's busy plotting revenge.

McCree should probably be more worried than he is, but he vividly remembers the smile at the feast and that little mocking smirk in the morning. Even if Hanzo is not a demon, he still seems the type to play with his prey rather than kill outright. After all, McCree is still alive despite the holy water fiasco, even though he's spent most of the day wandering around the castle and providing opportunities aplenty for anyone who might wish to ambush him.

He arrives to dinner early, and something in his chest unknots when he finally feels a familiar throb in his forearm. Despite the conspicuous absence, Hanzo doesn't look or act any different than usual, except that when he's seated, he looks directly at McCree and raises his goblet in a toast with a small smile. McCree gives him his best dispassionate look, but the smile doesn't waver. McCree is _not_ engaging in a stare-off across the table with someone he may end up killing tomorrow, so he silently vows to ignore all challenges and redirects his attention to the food. He still keeps one eye on Hanzo, though, just in case he disappears into thin air again before McCree's had a chance to corner him and demand some answers.

The scream is remote, barely audible over the conversations around the table. McCree almost thinks he imagined it — but Hanzo stiffens and turns his head towards the windows in a sharp motion that's just a little too fast to look natural. They both stand up at the same time. The scrape of heavy chairs across the floor cuts the conversation immediately.

In the silence, McCree listens. The archer does too, frozen in place, head still turned. Nothing.

"Something is happening," Hanzo says finally, no trace of the smile left. "There was a scream. Let's meet at the doors. Do not go out alone."

He cuts a look at McCree as he says it, and _I don't take commands from the likes of you_ sits on the tip of McCree's tongue, but everyone has already abandoned the dinner and people are crowding around them with questions, and there's no point being petty when every second matters.

In his room, hurriedly fastening his armor, he realizes grimly that if Hanzo is spying for the witch, then he might show his true colors tonight. Even if he's pursuing an agenda of his own, the chaos of a night attack is a perfect time to act, especially now that he's gotten everyone to trust him.

Well, there will be at least one man watching his every move, and McCree's crossbow is still loaded with blessed bolts.

* * *

Determined as he is to thwart any nefarious plans the archer might have, McCree still nearly trips over a threshold when he gets back to the grand hall: Hanzo has pulled off one sleeve of his jacket for some reason and tucked it behind his belt, once again disregarding the cold. McCree had only glimpsed the edges of the tattoo before, never had the chance to see it whole, never expected it to wind around Hanzo's whole arm and spill onto his chest — and never had the chance to see the archer half-naked either, didn't realize just how much muscle was hiding under all that silk.

He'd seen a few monsters in the past that were more than easy on the eye, but it was never _this_ difficult to remember that evil can hide behind a pretty mask.

This time there are no mocking smiles. McCree receives barely a glance before the archer starts barking commands, all of them offensively obvious: go together, weapons at the ready, find the guards on duty first. If he was ever human, he was _definitely_ born a noble. Nobody else would try to herd fellow professionals like a band of peasants, especially when not appointed leader in the first place. McCree gratefully dismisses the warmth that started stirring in the pit his stomach in favor of heartfelt annoyance, ignores whatever else the archer might have to say, grabs one of the torches and nods at the doormen, ready to reach for the crossbow.

He whistles when one wing of the heavy door opens. There have been a few foggy nights recently, but never anything close to this. It looks like a heavy cloud has descended upon the castle and sat sprawling over the courtyard. Ten paces, maybe fifteen, and then a wall of slowly swirling white. The braziers burning outside the door do little more than light it up.

"This is unnatural," Ana mutters behind him.

At least they don't have to look far for the guards: they're all huddled around one of the braziers and scared out of their wits. All of them heard the scream, they report in hushed voices, but no one could tell where it came from with all sense of direction lost in the thickening fog, so they all wisely fell back to the door, except for two lookouts that are still unaccounted for. After that scream, McCree is willing to wager at least one of them won't be coming back, but he keeps the thought to himself. Poor bastards. Always the same story: a noble pisses off someone they shouldn't have, but it's the common folk who bear the brunt of the consequences.

"We'll search for the missing men," he says decisively before the archer can try ordering them around again. "You stay where you are, defend the door." He expects some kind of resistance, but Hanzo doesn't seem to care about having his authority hijacked; he just stares into the fog, frowning like he's trying to pierce it with the force of his glare alone.

Ana nods in agreement. "Jack and I will check the east wall. You boys take the west and shout if you find something."

Hanzo silently turns on his heel and strides away. McCree gapes after him, thrown off, until the silvery tail of the silken ribbon Hanzo ties his hair with disappears in the fog.

"Make sure you don't split up," Ana says behind him. "This is no ordinary weather."

"I'm not letting him out of my sight, that's for damn sure," he grumbles.

"You just did," she points out. There's a smile in her voice that makes him look over his shoulder, but she's already turned away. Jack follows her without a word. A few steps, and they're nothing but two silhouettes and a muted light in the fog.

McCree realizes suddenly that Hanzo went ahead without a torch or any other source of light… which means the bastard can see in the dark, even if his eyes seem normal.

He curses under his breath, transfers the torch to his left hand and follows with the crossbow at the ready. The archer can't have made it more than twenty paces ahead, but once the fog swallows him, McCree can't hear any footsteps but his own, with an occasional piece of gravel crunching under his boots. He tenses up when he reaches the narrow stairs leading to the battlements. If something were to lie in wait to drop on him, this would be the perfect opportunity, now that the braziers at the door are but two blurry bright spots in the distance. If the archer wanted to get rid of him —

"You are very noisy," says a familiar voice from above.

McCree doesn't jump, but he does swear, viciously and with feeling to help disperse the flood of adrenaline in his veins.

When he reaches the top of the stairs, he finds Hanzo standing still in the dark, head slightly cocked like he's listening for something. He stops, too, and takes in his surroundings. The fog rolls over the wall in lazy waves, so thick that it swallows even the sounds of wildlife, leaving behind nothing but eerie silence. The torch gives them maybe ten paces of visible ground ahead before everything dissolves into darkness. It's not the worst set of circumstances McCree's had to hunt in — he's standing on solid ground and he's still mostly dry, for a start — but he's also half-blind and half-deaf, and he's got a companion who's as likely to turn on him as he is to help.

He tamps down a shiver, lowers the torch a little and eyes Hanzo's exposed shoulder. Not even a trace of goosebumps. At least he's gotten a confirmation that Hanzo does, in fact, breathe, in the form of small puffs of mist escaping his mouth and mixing with the cloudy air.

Hanzo finally moves. "Something is nearby," he says under his breath. "Do not stray far."

McCree adds inhumanly sharp hearing to the growing list of the archer's unnatural abilities and makes sure to fall in stride rather than following. "I'm a hunter," he mutters. "Don't teach me how to do my job."

Hanzo huffs. The fog swirls wildly in front of his face. "I am _keenly_ aware of who you are."

The meaningful note in his voice would be a perfect opportunity to segue into a confrontation, except they are alone in the dark, and after witnessing him train and fight, McCree has no illusions about the outcome. Should the archer attack him now, no one would ever know why he disappeared in the fog.

He grips the crossbow tighter instead and does his best to split his attention between Hanzo and the path ahead… except there's nothing ahead, the lights of the western tower are barely two faint sparks in the distance, and in between there's only stone, fog and silence. The archer, on the other hand, is fascinating to watch. Even now, visibly tense, with an arrow nocked and ready to draw, he moves gracefully and quietly as a ghost. McCree doesn't exactly stomp, but the soles of his boots are far from soft, and compared to Hanzo's barely-there footsteps his own sound deafening. There's also the way Hanzo keeps sharply turning his head, as if he's heard something in the complete silence, and the way his tattoo seems to come alive in the light of the torch, and how the wet, biting cold doesn't seem to affect him at all despite the half-bared torso —

This time he manages to look away before Hanzo catches him staring. Maybe focusing on his surroundings is the safer option after all.

When they finally reach the tower, he feels a little like he's waking from a disturbing dream. The danger is still somewhere out there, but at least now he can see something other than the stone under his feet, even if it's still so quiet that can hear the hissing and crackling of torches framing the tower entrance. At his side, Hanzo stops abruptly and raises his chin with a sharp inhale. McCree does it too, on reflex, but the cold, damp air stings his nostrils, and all he achieves is that his eyes water. He takes a few careful steps forward instead, towards the fuzzy light of the torches.

A glance over his shoulder reveals the archer still frozen in place. The way he's tilted his head back, he's either listening very intently or scenting the air like a hound. At least he doesn't seem inclined to shoot McCree in the back — and McCree realizes with dismay that he's readily turned his back to Hanzo in the first place.

If Gabriel saw him now, he'd never let him live it down.

The memory of Gabriel's flat look of disappointment is exactly what he needs to get himself together. He takes a couple more steps, raises the torch, takes a look around. The fog is not as thick in the corner between the parapet and the tower, and between the three torches there's enough light that he can actually see details: lichen growing in the cracks between wetly glistening stones, patches of rust on the closed iron grating, water dripping from the sconces.

And then he finally realizes that the throbbing in his arm has grown stronger than the soft vibration he's almost gotten used to, and glances up.

He very carefully avoids doing a double take. The archer is still somewhere behind him, but McCree can't turn around now. He calls out his name instead, as conversationally as he can manage.

The soft footsteps behind his back are still barely audible, even in this silence. "Yes?"

McCree evens out his breath, relaxes his stance. "Look up," he murmurs.

An arrow whizzes past his ear before he's even managed to take aim. The misshapen figure in the niche above the door comes to life, unfurls leathery wings and raises its head. It's still mostly hidden in the shadows and obscured by the fog, but the burning red eyes make for obvious targets. McCree shoots and knows instantly he missed, because the gargoyle doesn't even flinch. Behind him the bowstring sings again and one of the eyes goes out, replaced by an arrow buried nearly to the fletching; useless, it's only going to enrage the gargoyle, and he opens his mouth to tell Hanzo as much.

The monster shrieks. McCree nearly bites his tongue: the sound is so loud it _hurts_ , pierces his skull like a needle through the ear, makes his vision swim and his knees buckle. He drops the torch but keeps his hold on the crossbow, staggers but manages to stay upright, and his eyes refocus just in time to see the gargoyle plunge from its perch right at him. He knows he won't dodge in time, not like this. The only thing he can do is hit the second shot — so he does, he shoots nearly point blank and winces, bracing himself. 

There's no impact. Something grips his arm instead, painfully tight, and pulls him to the side with enough force that his shoulder screams in protest. He's still too dazed to regain balance on his own, slips on the wet stone and nearly goes sprawling, but Hanzo steadies him at the last second, and the monster careens past them and plummets into the darkness.

There's a moment of stillness, disrupted only by McCree's loud breath.

Hanzo growls something unintelligible, lets go of McCree's arm and leaps towards the parapet. He looks like he's about to jump right after the gargoyle and McCree lurches after him on instinct, but Hanzo stops and just stares over the edge, into the churning fog. McCree picks up the torch and carefully leans over the parapet next to him. Nothing. Everything is still and silent again. His shoulder aches and so does his head, and his ears are still ringing, and he's pretty sure the archer just saved his life.

He didn't even have to do anything. He only needed to stay where he was, and McCree would never be a problem again.

"It's gone," Hanzo says curtly, pushing away from the parapet.

"Gone as in dead, or —?"

"Gone as in _gone_ ," Hanzo snaps. "I don't know. I can't sense it anymore."

McCree steps away from the edge and turns to look at him. For the first time since they met, the archer looks truly pissed off. There's a deep frown between his eyebrows and he's grimacing slightly, as if the monster offended him somehow. Maybe he thinks his arrows should have killed it, or maybe he's annoyed that McCree saw it first. Either way, McCree's instinct tells him in no uncertain terms that it's not wise to press Hanzo for answers right now.

Then again, if for some unfathomable reason he just saved McCree's life, he's not likely to ruin his effort immediately after. Probably. Unless he acted on pure instinct, and he's only now realizing that he missed a perfect opportunity, and it's about to occur to him that he can still throw McCree off the wall, after the monster.

The sound of footsteps makes the dilemma moot. Ana and Jack come running, alerted by the noise, and from then on it's all questions, explanations and more futile searching and staring into the fog. No more monsters come out of the darkness. They follow Ana back to the east tower, where she and Jack found one of the missing lookouts, clinging to the grate and whimpering in blind fear; Ana has to force-feed him one of her concoctions to unroot him from the spot. The fate of the other lookout remains unknown until McCree notices Hanzo eyeing his boots, and he realizes why he slipped earlier, and that he's leaving red footprints.

* * *

Back at the castle, after they do the explaining all over again, a decision is made to pull back all guards and bar the doors. McCree doubts the witch would have bothered scouting if she planned a full-blown attack tonight, and Hanzo unexpectedly agrees. McCree watches him speak from the corner of his eye. He seems calm now, but he's still frowning something fierce, and after all has been said and all plans agreed upon, he's the first to leave the room.

This time McCree is ready for it, and walks out right after him.

As expected, Hanzo ignores him entirely. McCree follows him doggedly, stays five paces behind until they turn into the guest wing, where there's no one to overhear and he can finally call out his name.

Hanzo slows down to a stop and his shoulders droop, as if he's sighing. "Yes?" he asks without turning around.

There are several things McCree wants to say, or ask, or accuse him of, but what unexpectedly comes out of his mouth is: "Thank you."

This time Hanzo does turn around. "What are you thanking me for?"

It's the last response McCree expected to hear, and it throws him off for a second. "For saving my life," he manages finally. "Thought that'd be pretty obvious."

"I attacked before you were ready and nearly got you killed. I forgot how slow you are. Don't thank me for correcting my own mistake."

The statement is outrageous for at least three reasons. McCree sputters for a moment, trying to decide which one to bring up first, and Hanzo turns on his heel and resumes walking. McCree abandons all pretense of dignity and jogs after him, suddenly sure that if he lets the archer disappear around the corner, he won't find him there when he catches up.

"Why did you do it?" he asks, stepping rudely into Hanzo's path.

The glare he receives in response makes him wonder if he'll get sent flying down the hall next. It also stirs something warm in the pit of his stomach, which is such a _wrong_ reaction that he immediately decides to blame it on the shock — but while he braces for possible violence, Hanzo's glare slips off his face and onto something over his shoulder. McCree is just about to turn when he hears the sound of an opening door and light footsteps.

Hanzo folds his arms without a word. McCree sticks his thumbs into his belt, just to do something with his hands. They stand in an awkward, silent impasse while a maid walks past them with the stiff gait of someone dying of curiosity.

Hanzo doesn't move or speak after she closes the door behind her, so neither does McCree. The oil lamp on the wall casts enough light that he can see the way Hanzo's gaze softens and loses focus. It's obvious now that he's listening: the maid is probably eavesdropping with her ear to the door. There's a permanent frown line etched between his eyebrows and a tense set to his shoulders, and his hair is starting to grey at the temples, silver weaving through black, and his lips are dry; this close he looks a lot more human, and yet the amulet keeps buzzing under its cover, annoying like an itch that can't be scratched.

"Why?" McCree repeats as soon as Hanzo relaxes and the glare returns in full force. "Why not just let the gargoyle take my head off?"

A pause. The glare dissolves into several rapid blinks. "Why would I let you die?" Hanzo asks incredulously.

He looks up at McCree like he's lost his mind, eyebrows raised, and McCree suddenly realizes he's a good few inches taller, a fact he somehow never noticed before. Maybe it's because they never stood face to face like this, close enough that he can see the color of Hanzo's eyes even with the single flame of the lamp for the only source of light.

"You know I'm a hunter and I won't leave you alone," he points out. "That's a reason."

"Stupidity is not yet punishable by death," Hanzo replies snidely, taking a step to the right. McCree matches him with a step to the left, determined. Against his expectations, Hanzo only sighs with exaggerated exasperation and rolls his eyes instead of pushing him aside. "What do you want from me, _hunter_?"

"Truth," he replies immediately. "You're not a human. Who the hell _are_ you and why are you here?"

It feels good to finally say it out loud, like shedding a burden that's been weighing him down for days. It also occurs to him immediately after that he's decided to confront Hanzo in a dimly lit corridor in the middle of the night, with no soul in sight to witness his very possible demise. So much for picking a better time and place than foggy battlements. And he's already had first hand evidence of how fast and strong Hanzo is, too: his left shoulder still aches whenever he moves it and he's sure he'll find a bruise on his bicep come morning. It would take Hanzo little effort to snap his neck.

Gabriel used to ask whether he had any self-preservation instinct at all. Usually it was a rhetorical question. What he's doing now is yet another proof that he doesn't; Gabriel would probably disown him if he knew. That, or declare him insane.

Hanzo doesn't attack or attempt to silence him, doesn't even bat an eyelid at the accusation, just looks at McCree thoughtfully, like he's considering something. It reminds McCree of the quizzical glances he caught before. "I am here for the same reason as you: earning my daily bread," he answers finally. "As for who I am, I told you my name. The rest is none of your business."

This is where McCree should shut up, bid him good night and leave, if he had an inkling of survival instinct. Naturally, he does the opposite. "See, that's where you're wrong," he counters, trying to keep morbid amusement out of his voice. "It _is_ my business. In fact, it's my job to protect people."

Some of the amusement must have come through, because the corners of Hanzo's mouth rise just a bit. "Why would you need to protect people from me?"

"For the same reason monster hunters exist."

"Are you calling me a monster?"

"Are you not one?"

Hanzo smiles openly at that. "Are you not a killer for hire?" he counters. "You haven't been paid to retrieve my head. Is that not good enough reason to leave me alone?"

The smile is very similar to the one after the holy water treatment: smug, challenging and wide enough to show the sharp tips of his canines. McCree wonders briefly if the display is intentional, and if so, then what kind of reaction it's meant to elicit, because fear ranks distressingly low in the list of things that smile makes him feel. Here's hoping Hanzo's hearing isn't good enough to pick up his heartbeat.

He couldn't wipe the answering grin off his face now if he tried, so he matches Hanzo's light tone. "I could make it a personal project."

"Mm. First you ask why I did not kill you, then you threaten to kill _me_ , all within a span of minutes. You're trying really hard to give me a reason, McCree."

Hearing his name from Hanzo's mouth somehow makes his pulse even faster: he can feel it racing in his temples now, hear it thudding in his ears. Hanzo takes a step forward, still smiling. It brings him into arm's reach. For a wild second, McCree expects either a knife between the ribs, or a kiss. Maybe both.

Hanzo does neither. "I do not owe you any information," he says instead, eyes boring into McCree's. His irises glow dark amber in the light of the lamp. "What I will give you is my word: I am not here to harm anyone. Take it or leave it."

McCree fails to respond, stuck on the idea his own imagination just blindsided him with. Attempting to force confessions out of monsters is one thing, wanting to _kiss them_ is another one entirely, and yet the thought digs its claws deep into his mind and doesn't let go. It cuts his breath short, locks his muscles, sends a prickling wave of heat across his skin. It would only take one step, a quick dip of his head—

 _And then you'd get gutted, you idiot_ , Gabriel's voice murmurs from some distant corner of his mind.

Hanzo is close enough that McCree can hear the long breath he takes, the even longer exhale. "Good night," he says finally, still with a shadow of a smile on his lips.

McCree watches him take a step back, then another, then turn around and walk away. He watches, still dumbstruck, as Hanzo reaches the arch at the end of the corridor, casts one last glance over his shoulder and disappears out of sight.

It takes him a while to unstick his feet from the floor. He returns to his room slowly, in a daze. He hangs his hat, puts away his weapons, shrugs off the coat, crouches in front of the hearth to feed the dying fire.

"What the hell," he says finally, staring into the flames.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. [2020 happened](https://www.tiktok.com/@avenuebeat/video/6843212672327011590). I've been so out of it, I was genuinely convinced I posted the first chapter of this story a month or two ago...
> 
> Big grateful thanks to [robocryptid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robocryptid/pseuds/robocryptid) for the beta!

McCree's not convinced that his shot hit the target last night. It could have been one of Hanzo's arrows that did the job, and that's assuming they even managed to kill the monster in the first place; it could have simply returned to wherever it came from, especially after that arrow to the eye. He gets an unexpected answer after the summons to yet another council, in the form of a dirty bundle of linen sitting in the middle of the table.

"My men found these in a pile of mud close to where you fought that creature." The marshal nods towards the mysterious item. "Looks like a spell of some sort. Perhaps the monster dropped it?"

The bundle clacks softly against McCree's metal palm. He unwraps it carefully, wipes the dirt off the small pieces of ceramic, lays them out on the table, arranges them into a shape. Looks like he did hit that shot after all.

"Not mud," he says. "Clay. This is an activation sigil of a construct."

Hanzo walks around the table, stops at his side and leans over the shattered tablet. Others crowd around too, craning their necks to see. A silk-covered shoulder presses briefly against McCree's, hot through the sleeve of his shirt. He resists the urge to turn his head, just like he's been resisting thinking about the events of last night altogether.

He's got work to do. Lives are at stake now. He needs to focus… and Hanzo is still not to be trusted.

"How did you know where to aim?" Hanzo asks under his breath.

The question catches him off guard; whatever he might have expected Hanzo to do or say after yesterday's events, it wasn't this. "Between and above the eyes," he murmurs back. "Third point of a triangle."

A thoughtful hum. "I made it harder for you by shooting it in the eye, then. My apologies."

Now McCree has to glance suspiciously to the side, caution be damned. Hanzo doesn't _seem_ to be sarcastic, and he's not smiling either. In fact, his face is perfectly serious and his tone is solemn, and it really does look like he's apologizing for inconveniencing McCree by shooting a man-eating monster.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with him in broad daylight, in a room full of people, feels strange. Unreal, like McCree hasn't actually woken up yet and this is only a vivid dream. Stranger even than last night. McCree has confronted monsters in barely-lit darkness before, but he's never carried on a polite conversation with one the next day. In the grey light of a late autumn morning, Hanzo looks a lot more human, too: there are even soft shadows under his eyes, the look of someone who did not get enough rest.

The lord clears his throat. "Would you care to explain what I'm looking at?"

McCree hastily breaks eye contact, swears internally and straightens. _Focus_.

* * *

Explaining how golems work and answering questions takes him the whole morning. Judging by Ana's wry smile, the irony doesn't escape her — were she really an alchemist, this would be her area of expertise. Thing is, McCree has seen the items she carries and the ornaments she wears, and he knows a shaman when he sees one. Not that he's going to blame her or do anything about that knowledge; 'alchemist' sounds a lot more agreeable than 'shaman' to a highborn ear, and everyone has to make a living.

Luckily for Ana and less so for McCree, nobody else present has the first clue about alchemy, so McCree gives a whole damn lecture. He talks, and talks, and talks some more, until his voice finally refuses to work. It's not that he's not talkative or anything. It's just been a while since he had any reason to talk even half this much.

Ana knocks on his door not long after the council has ended, a steaming cup in her hand. "This is for your throat," she says with a small smile. "Walk with me while you drink?"

McCree has learned long ago to never argue with shamans and _never_ ask about ingredients. The concoction's strong aroma is not completely unpleasant, and he has no doubts about its efficacy, but he still delays trying it until they reach the largest of common rooms and step out onto the balcony overlooking the courtyard. The sky is still stubbornly cloudy, but last night's strange fog has disappeared without a trace, and the castle is bustling with normal activity. There's even someone in the training square — but it's only guards, taking turns at poking a target dummy with pikes.

McCree sighs, braces himself and drinks. It's actually not bad as shaman draughts go, bitter as all hell but tempered with honey, and there's only a bit of a strange aftertaste lingering on the back of his tongue after he swallows.

"I don't think this will work. It's not awful enough," he rasps.

Ana scoffs loudly. "Keep drinking. I have another gift for you. What do you think of Hanzo?"

The cup isn't large, but it's big enough to shield most of McCree's face, and he lowers it only after he's certain of his blank expression. "He's a monster of some sort. You gotta know that."

"That's not what I asked."

There's a hint of a teasing lilt in her voice, and McCree doesn't like it. "I'm afraid I don't follow," he says blandly. "What am I supposed to think?"

"Ah, nevermind. I've seen the way you look at him."

Her meaningful tone makes the underlying suggestion obvious. The unexpected kick of adrenaline is not unlike the one McCree always gets before a fight, and no matter how well he controls his expression, he can't do anything with the treacherous heat he can feel rising to his face — so he takes a breath to rebuke the suggestion, and immediately chokes on the mouthful of brew he was about to swallow.

Ana lets him cough and sputter with a sunny smile. "You're going to make your throat worse," she adds unhelpfully after a while.

McCree finally overcomes the cough by sheer force of indignation. "I watch him because I have to know what he's up to," he croaks, casting a quick look over his shoulder and lowering his voice just in case. "I have to be ready to fight him, not — whatever you're thinking."

"One does not exclude the other, you know."

The only remaining way to escape this conversation with some dignity is not responding at all, so McCree does just that, hiding behind his cup again.

Ana just shakes her head at him. "Have it your way," she says in a tone one might use when indulging a child. "Does your amulet not bother you?"

Of course she knows. She's a shaman, amulets are her thing as much as killing monsters is his. "It activates a lot," McCree shrugs. "Not the end of the world."

"Mm-hm. So it does. Would you like it to stop?"

"What? Hell no." The brew seems to have started working already, and he overcompensates for the receding roughness in his throat by pitching his voice a little too loud. He switches to an indignant undertone instead. "I'm not getting rid of it because one monster decided to go incognito!"

Ana lets out an impatient _tsk_. "I'm not talking about deactivation." She reaches into the pouch at her belt and pulls out something wrapped in a strip of red fabric. "Give me your hand. And finish your drink."

There's still something about her that reminds him of Gabriel, and maybe that's why he extends his left hand before making any conscious decision to do so. Ana places the bundle of fabric in his palm. It's small and nearly weightless, and with his other hand still occupied, he can only give it a suspicious look. He drains the dregs of the concoction with a shudder, and Ana plucks the cup out of his fingers. "This will stop your amulet from reacting to his presence," she says, tucking it back into her pouch. "Before you ask: yes, it's attuned to him only."

McCree doesn't drop the gift, but it's a near thing. He places it on the wide balustrade instead and takes a step back for good measure. "I can't. I mean, thank you, I appreciate the thought, but I can't use it. He's a —"

"— A companion who has proven trustworthy?" she cuts in smoothly when he hesitates.

McCree scoffs. "Has he now?"

"You fought the gargoyle together, did you not?"

He reaches to rub at the bruises on his bicep before he realizes what he's doing, and Ana's shrewd gaze follows the gesture. He gives her a half-hearted scowl and folds his arms instead. "Fine, so he didn't take the first opportunity to turn on us, but that doesn't make him _trustworthy_. What if he's spying for the witch and biding his time?"

Ana wrinkles her nose. "Not very likely."

She leans with her elbows on the balustrade, looking out to the courtyard and not meeting his eye, and something in her tone gives him pause.

"…You know what he is, don't you," he says flatly.

"I have my suspicions," she replies, cheerful like they're exchanging gossip and not discussing potential matters of life and death. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I can't in good conscience share something I'm not certain of myself. Why does it matter so much to you, anyway?"

He's lost for words for a moment. Ana keeps watching the bustle below as he struggles to describe the obvious. "Because I'm a hunter?" he says finally, not bothering to keep the incredulity out of his voice. "Because if he kills someone, their blood will be on my hands?"

"You trusted the rest of us readily enough. Has he wronged you in any way?"

"Oh, come on. You can't compare him to yourself or Jack. You're a human, dammit."

"I have known several good people who weren't humans," she says in the same calm and infuriatingly patronizing tone.

"Well, I haven't," McCree snaps. "And I can't afford to wait for monsters to _wrong me_ before I act."

Now she does turn her head to look at him again, lips pursed like he's said something unreasonable. McCree sets his jaw and stares into the distance, skin prickling under her gaze. Even if he wanted to, it would be irresponsible of him to trust Hanzo. Not counting Ana, he's the only one who knows there's a monster hiding in their midst, and it's his job and his duty to watch out for others.

It all makes perfect sense, but the silent scrutiny still makes him feel annoyingly guilty.

Eventually, Ana straightens up and takes a step back with a sigh. "I don't have the patience anymore to lecture the young about lost chances," she says. McCree hates the note of disappointment in her voice because that, too, reminds him of Gabriel. "The amulet is yours, do with it as you will. If you do decide to use it, wear it close to the body. The range is very small." She pauses, smiles and reaches out to pat his shoulder lightly. "And thank you for the excellent lecture about constructs. Let me know if your throat doesn't recover soon."

And now McCree just feels like an ungrateful ass. "I will," he mutters, taking his hat off. "Thank you."

Another smile over her shoulder, a nod, and she's gone.

He puts the hat back on with a sigh, leans against the balustrade on folded arms and looks down. The courtyard is a busy place at this time of day, especially compared to the graveyard silence last night: guards, retainers, servants and guests, dogs and horses, even an empty lumber cart rolling towards the gate. So many people going about their daily business despite the imminent threat. Most of them defenseless, especially against the unnatural, and all of them putting their trust in their suzerain. Relying on his protection when the danger comes. Relying, indirectly, on McCree getting his shit together and doing his job right.

The bright red strip of fabric next to his elbow flaps in a gust of wind. McCree side-eyes it. A flick of a finger, and it would be as if it never existed.

On the other hand, it's disrespectful to refuse a gift and unwise to anger a shaman. Some even say it's bad luck to reject a gift given in good will.

He prods the edge of the fabric with a finger and raises his eyebrows when it unrolls. The amulet is small and a lot more complex than he'd expect from something improvised on a whim: a twig of pale coral and a piece of petrified wood, roughly carved to fit together and bound with intricately knotted thread. There's even a length of thin leather cord woven through.

It must have taken hours to construct and enchant, and stones like these aren't exactly cheap either. Even if he's not going to use it, it's just not something he can throw away like garbage.

The amulet feels heavy in the pocket of his vest as he returns to his room. He buries it deep in his bags, amongst his stash of magical ingredients, with the same mix of guilt, dread and excitement he once felt hiding a few filthy drawings he had bought from a traveling merchant.

* * *

The lord has been tight-lipped about the witch he managed to piss off, but her apparent preference towards alchemy is good news. As magical puppets go, constructs are much better than several other options. They're easier and cleaner to kill than undead and don't create a terrible dilemma like people under a spell, and most importantly, they can't act without direct involvement of their master. The witch has to rest, and when she does, she can't sic her minions on the castle.

Of course, the other side of the coin is that the undead can't launch a coordinated attack, while constructs are only limited by the willpower and strength of the mind that commands them. McCree has a feeling they're going to see a lot more than two gargoyles tonight.

This time they are better prepared, at least. Instead of feasting they eat a rushed meal before sundown, everyone armored and ready with weapons stashed at the far side of the dining table, and when there's nothing left to do but wait, they start exchanging stories. McCree feels increasingly like he's about to jump out of his skin. It's mostly the anticipation, but also the fact that Hanzo has decided to sit next to him for some reason. He also chose to dress in white again, and he's being more talkative than usual, even laughs a few times, and it's impossible to ignore him when they have nothing to do but sit there and talk. It's not as if McCree can look the other way when Hanzo is answering a question right next to him. Not without drawing attention with his strange behavior.

Even the constant throb of the amulet is particularly annoying tonight, and of course it reminds him of the little stone trinket tucked away in his bags. Should have gotten rid of the thing; now it's going to tempt him every time Hanzo is near. Worse, it's going to remind him of Ana's insinuations and the conversation last night he's been doing his best to forget.

Next to him, Hanzo drums his fingers on the table. The wide sleeve of his jacket has slid back, baring a thick, tattooed wrist, and McCree stares at it for a while before finally realizing he's looking at a snarling maw of some great horned beast. Yesterday the tattoo was just a blur of colors and shapes in the twilight, and he wonders if the rest of it is just as detailed when viewed up close. His fingers itch with a sudden urge to push the sleeve further up, see more of the beast. Touch the skin.

Hanzo's hand stills.

McCree freezes momentarily in adrenaline-fueled panic, dry mouth and heart in his throat and all, before he remembers his mind is shielded and there's no way the archer can read it. Just a coincidence, then — but it's the second time his thoughts have betrayed him in as many days, and reminding himself Hanzo is a monster doesn't seem to help much anymore. Not even imagining Gabriel's reaction does.

He's never wished so fervently for an attack to happen. When he finally hears running footsteps in the hall, he's the first to spring to his feet.

The guard bows as far as the breastplate allows, helmet clutched under his arm. "Fog's coming, your lordship," he says breathlessly. "Men are falling back to the door."

McCree could almost hug him: finally something to do, to steer his thoughts towards things that are important. Next to him, Hanzo rises and shrugs his left sleeve off in a clearly well-practiced motion. He's so close that their elbows nearly brush. McCree gathers all his discipline and averts his eyes, just to see Ana watching him with a sly smile.

It's been a while since he wanted this badly to shoot something.

* * *

If anyone had any doubts about the origin of the fog, they'd disappear after they witnessed its descent onto the castle. It arrives from the west, climbs the wall like a living thing and spills over it like a thick foam, filling the courtyard and swallowing all ambient sound on its way. McCree has seen a lot of creepy things, and the view still gives him goosebumps.

At least it's not fully dark yet, and they don't have to wait long for the enemy to arrive.

They're all gathered on the wall next to the gatehouse when they hear the first footsteps. A heavy, relentless rhythm starts somewhere across the castle grounds and gets closer and closer, until big, lumbering shapes begin looming in the fog. A pouch of Ana's magic combined with one of Hanzo's arrows clears the fog enough that they can briefly see the golems: huge, primitive, all moving towards the gate at the same mindless, unchanging pace. The portcullis stops one, then another, but what they lack in creativity they make up for in strength and mass, and they simply start throwing themselves at it. The reinforced wood creaks ominously when three of them collide with it at the same time. There's no doubt it will eventually splinter in its frame.

Judging by the muffled sounds, there are a lot more than three golems incoming, too. A battle is inevitable; the only question is where to fight them. They can either raise the portcullis and let them through, or sneak out through the side gate and ambush them from behind. The latter option means no backup plan if things start going south, and it's rapidly getting dark, but McCree votes for the ambush anyway. The courtyard isn't all that big, and he doesn't like the thought of getting cornered by these things.

The constructs don't even turn around at first. Jack has to shoot one of them in the back to get its attention. The bolt buries itself uselessly in the clay and then the golems do turn, all of them at the same time, perfectly and unsettlingly synchronized. Many pairs of glowing eyes stare at them from the fog that's started to thicken again, and the familiar exhilaration of battle quickens McCree's pulse, sharpens his senses, stretches his mouth in a wild grin. Next to him Hanzo lets an arrow fly and the closest pair of eyes goes out, followed by a thud that resonates through the ground under their feet. Jack hefts his massive crossbow again and Ana weighs another mysterious pouch in her hand. Hanzo draws the bow again.

McCree realizes in a flash how much he's missed this. Not just the fighting, but fighting with others at his side. Even if one of them is a monster, because right now, in this moment, it doesn't matter.

"Hey, leave a few for me," he says, unholstering his own crossbow.

Hanzo fires another arrow. "Keep up, then," he replies in the same imperious tone that raised McCree's hackles yesterday. Except… it's not exactly the same, it sounds considerably less obnoxious somehow, and McCree glances to the side, curious. Ah. Hanzo is smiling. It's tight-lipped, but it's there, and something about it reminds McCree of that insufferably smug grin after he'd chugged a goblet of holy water.

"It's on," he drawls. Hanzo's smile grows wide and toothy as he effortlessly pulls the bowstring to his cheek, as if he liked the challenge — and then McCree has to start paying attention and roll out of the way of a golem that charges directly at him.

With Ana clearing the fog around them, they make quick work of the first wave of constructs. The second one comes after the last traces of daylight have disappeared, and Ana produces a handful of ghostly lights from somewhere — summoned or conjured, McCree isn't certain, all he knows is that they're brighter than will-o'-wisps or fireflies, and they seem to obey Ana's will. This time the gargoyles come too, and everyone, even Hanzo, hurriedly plugs their ears with wax. McCree takes certain vindictive satisfaction from taking down a diving gargoyle with one clean shot.

Eventually they find themselves in silence and darkness, surrounded by nothing but mounds of crumbling clay in trampled grass, with Ana's eerie lights dancing slowly above their heads.

McCree has a suspicion Ana didn't limit herself to providing just visibility and light. They've been out here in the fog for at least two hours, fighting a relentless stream of constructs, and somehow he doesn't feel tired at all. Even more than that, he _wants_ to keep fighting. Unsated battle lust still buzzes under his skin, and he wishes the witch made an appearance instead of sending her puppets. Would be nice to take her down once and for all.

Next to him, Hanzo crouches, digs an arrow out of a pile of dirt and raises it towards the closest floating light to inspect for damage. McCree watches him wipe it on his jacket with a complete lack of concern for the stains he's leaving on white fabric.

"Why do you undress before battle?"

The question bursts out unbidden, but once it's out, McCree finds that he prefers it to the growing restlessness. Ana and Jack turn to look at them, the former with a faint smile McCree studiously ignores, the latter with the everpresent scowl.

"The sleeve would interfere with my draw," Hanzo answers immediately, unruffled and without a glance in his direction. "Why are you wearing a hat?"

McCree gapes at his back for a moment. "Many reasons," he says finally.

"Enlighten me."

Fair's fair. "Mostly to hide my eyes. For protection, too. And habit. What's that beast you have tattooed on your arm?"

"A dragon."

"Bullshit. That's not what a dragon looks like."

This time Hanzo glances at him before crouching to retrieve another arrow. "Have you seen one?" he asks calmly.

"Well, no. But I've seen pictures, and none of them looked like that."

"What makes you think the pictures you saw were closer to the truth?"

McCree is perfectly aware that he's got no leg to stand on, of course. He's even pretty sure dragons don't exist at all. The back-and-forth is better than standing around staring into the fog, though, and Hanzo's enjoying it too, judging by the hint of amusement in his tone.

He's fought on their side twice now, and to say that he fought well would be an understatement. He still hasn't shown any intention of betraying them, either. Do monsters have some sort of a code? Is he betraying his kind by helping humans?

"Dragons don't exist," Jack interjects in a gravelly voice. This time everyone turns to look at him, even Hanzo, because the number of times Jack has voluntarily spoken during their acquaintance could be counted on the fingers of one hand. "Some monster hunter you are."

"Hey, you can never be sure," McCree replies, mock-offended. "I keep an open mind."

"Do you?" Ana asks innocently.

McCree glances at Hanzo, instantly realizes he's walked into a trap and swallows half a dozen defensive responses. At least Hanzo is back to his task, holding yet another arrow to the gently swaying light and turning it between his fingers. "I try," he replies finally, doing his best to keep his voice light.

The arrow stops moving for a heartbeat before Hanzo slides it into the quiver, this time not bothering with cleanup. "I don't hear any more coming," he says. "We can fall back to the gatehouse."

McCree looks away hastily before he's caught staring again. 

* * *

The gatehouse is far from cozy: bare stone walls, equally bare stone floor, a wooden table with two benches and a brazier fighting an uneven battle with an icy draft. Standing near the brazier feels like a much better idea than sitting away from it, so McCree gets as close as he can without the risk of singing his coat and extends both hands, flesh and metal, towards the warmth. The buzz under his skin has subsided a little, but his mind and body are still on alert, and every sound and every peripheral movement register with unnecessary sharpness. The shadows dancing on the walls. The occasional crackling of burning coals. The soft rustling of pages in the book Ana has produced from somewhere.

"The fog seems to be thinning," Hanzo says from the window.

McCree gets goosebumps just from looking at him. The window is barely more than an arrow slit, but it's wide enough to let plenty of cold air in, and Hanzo is half-sitting, half-leaning on the rough stone sill with most of his torso still bare.

Ana looks up expectantly from her book, and Jack stands up and walks over to the window. McCree considers following him, but two people at a window this size is already a crowd, especially when one of them is Hanzo. He decides to head out instead.

The fog is definitely lifting, and all at once too, as if the witch's iron grip has suddenly slipped; she must have exhausted herself, or maybe she just ran out of puppets. Now that the moon has come out and the battlements are becoming visible again, the view isn't bad. McCree walks until the amulet finally stops throbbing, then leans against the parapet and looks towards the empty, quiet castle grounds. The rapidly dispersing fog makes for a sight almost as eerie as its arrival.

The sounds have returned, too. A chorus of crickets is hard at work somewhere below, and the creak of the gatehouse door opening again is sharp and clear. So is the sound of footsteps. Light, short stride: Ana.

She appears at his side shortly after, adjusting the shawl around her shoulders. "It would seem the witch is done for the night," she says.

"Or it's a trap, and she's waiting for us to drop our guard."

Ana hums thoughtfully. "I may not be a witch, but I know a thing or two about spells. Controlling natural phenomena takes a lot of effort. Creating them, even more. I imagine animating all those golems must have taken its toll, too."

Footsteps again. Heavy. Jack, then. 

"I think we can retire for the night," Ana concludes with a sigh. "We old people need our sleep. I'm sure the guards will come knocking if anything happens. "

After they've exchanged goodnights, McCree turns back towards the parapet and rolls his shoulders. There's no way he'll sleep anytime soon. Not after a fight, not with whatever magic Ana wove still coursing through his body. And with the disappearance of the fog the night has become a lot more pleasant, too, still chilly but not enough to penetrate his armor. Standing watch for a while should help him relax, let the alertness fade.

The amulet throbs and McCree winces. So much for winding down.

"Do you expect more enemies?"

He twitches in surprise. He definitely should have heard incoming footsteps, and Hanzo's voice somehow rings out directly behind him.

"People make sounds when they walk," he mutters, throwing a brief glare over his shoulder.

Hanzo is, indeed, right behind him, close enough that in the moonlight McCree can see the corners of his mouth twitch. "You should be more aware of your surroundings."

McCree doesn't dignify the obvious bullshit with an answer: there's no way Hanzo walked right up to him without making any noise. The bastard must have used another one of his unnatural powers.

And he could have used the surprise to stick a knife in McCree's back. Could have sliced his throat. Could have just given him a push. There are countless ways in which McCree could be dead right now, and at this point Hanzo has let enough opportunities pass to prove that despite having every reason to, he really doesn't wish him harm.

The thought is not as comforting as it ought to be, because there's still an unanswered question of _why_.

Hanzo steps forward and stands next to him, not quite shoulder to shoulder, but still within arm's reach. McCree risks a quick glance to the side: he's pulled the left sleeve back on and slung the bow over his shoulder, and he's looking at the dark forest line ahead, arms folded. He seems calm, maybe even satisfied. McCree can only bitterly wish for calm; there's a new tension winding his muscles tight, even though the danger has long passed.

There's a scabbed over scratch across the dragon's head peeking out from under the edge of Hanzo's sleeve. The sleeve itself is smeared with dirt and grass, as is the rest of his pretty and impractical white garb. A shadow of a stubble is starting to appear above the crisp line of his beard. Somehow the little imperfections only make it harder to look away.

"You claim to keep an open mind."

In hindsight, it was stupid to expect him not to bring it up. Hanzo's tone is light and there's no accusation in his voice, but it still takes McCree a mortifyingly long while to recover and gather his thoughts, and he still doesn't come up with any better response than a grunt. 

"It made me wonder, of course," Hanzo continues, still in the same conversational tone. McCree has to look at him again, and then Hanzo turns his head too, and looking away is no longer an option. "Just how open-minded are you really, McCree?"

There's something in Hanzo's gaze and in his tone that makes every hair on McCree's body stand on end. The situation is all too similar to last night's confrontation, except this time there's no lamp, only moonlight, and Hanzo's eyes are impenetrably dark. The question seems light-hearted, but suddenly McCree knows with absolute certainty that whatever his response is, it will have lasting consequences. Too bad his tongue is still stuck to the roof of his mouth.

"You're alive, aren't you," he grumbles finally.

Hanzo's eyes flick between his own, as if searching for something. Maybe the answer did come out a bit too harsh, not quite as tongue-in-cheek as it should have been, but it's too late to change the tone, and surely it's clear it wasn't entirely serious — and, well, it's true anyway.

Hanzo finally smiles, but it's a small smile, closed-mouthed and strange. Not challenging and not amused. "How magnanimous of you," he says.

McCree's gut twists with the strangest unease. _Wrong answer_ , Gabriel's voice growls in the back of his mind.

Hanzo gives him a nod and takes a step back. "Good night," he says formally, no trace of teasing left. "Let us hope the witch won't disturb our rest."

The answer was wrong. Something about Hanzo's smile is wrong, too — _was_ wrong, because he's walking away, he's nearly to the stairs by the gatehouse now. "Wait," McCree blurts out, taking an aborted step forward.

Hanzo stops and turns his head a fraction. Listening.

McCree's plan did not extend past getting him to stop. He has no idea what to say, all he knows is his instinct screaming that he can't let Hanzo leave, so he stalls. "Well fought tonight. You, uh. Remembered about the sigils."

A small shrug. "Of course I did."

A heartbeat passes, two. Last chance to change the answer. Hanzo takes another step towards the stairs, and in a flash of panic-fueled clarity, McCree calls out his name. It works, Hanzo stops again and after a moment's hesitation turns to face him fully this time — and there's that rush of adrenaline again, the one that always comes before battle, even if fighting is the last thing on his mind right now. 

He clears his throat. "Think my mind's pretty open after tonight," he says. It's awkward as hell and his voice comes out a bit strangled, but he knows instantly that he made the right choice.

Hanzo doesn't move. He's barely more than a moonlit silhouette at this distance, but McCree doesn't need to see his face to feel the sudden change in the air. A shiver that has nothing to do with the cold rushes down his skin, leaving more goosebumps in its wake. He feels simultaneously like he's backed away from a precipice and like he's jumped off one.

Hanzo finally breaks the silence. "Will miracles never cease," he says. The amusement in his voice takes the bite out of the sarcasm. He inclines his head towards the stairs. "Are you planning to stand there all night?"

McCree lets out the breath he's been holding. "Guess not," he says wryly, taking a step forward. "Better get some sleep before the witch comes back for another round."

Hanzo hums vaguely and starts descending down the stairs. McCree follows him, a little dazed. The night has suddenly taken on a strange, indescribable, almost magical quality, similar to that misty morning when he witnessed Hanzo training in the practice area. It could even be actual magic. He should probably feel alarmed instead of weirdly giddy.

He watches Hanzo's graceful steps instead, and wonders again if he even needs sleep. That hum sounded awfully evasive. Maybe he doesn't sleep at all, or maybe he sleeps like a vampire, a deep, long slumber once a month.

Somehow the thought doesn't bother him as much as it should.

* * *

There are unexpected comforts waiting in his room: a plate of bread and cheese, a pitcher of wine and, incredibly, a basin of water. Admittedly it's cold, and the chilly draft in the room makes the sting even worse, but it's enough of a luxury already to be able to wash off dirt and sweat before sleep. Besides, the good soul who brought him the water had also stoked the fire, and after he's pulled on a fresh shirt, McCree can sit on a stool in front of the flames and soak up the heat.

The wine is only slightly watery, the cheese pleasantly sharp, and the bread not even a bit stale. The bear skin in front of the hearth looks so invitingly smooth that he pulls off his boots and curls his toes in the fur. There haven't been many jobs in his life that left him warm, fed and clean at the end of the day; if someone asked right now, he'd gladly trade all the gold he's ever owned just to have these simple comforts every night.

He wonders if Hanzo got the same treatment and whether he cares for it. The way he tends to carry himself, maybe he's used to hot baths and lavish meals instead. Then again, he'd arrived on horseback, dirty and rumpled like everyone else, so maybe he's left luxuries behind long ago.

Maybe he's sitting in front of a fire too, sipping wine.

McCree sighs and sets the empty cup on the floor. The buzz under his skin is finally subsiding, and between the wine, the food and the fire he's well on his way to blissfully warm. Maybe he will be able to sleep soon after all. The bear skin looks more comfortable than a number of beds he's slept in in the past, and he's tempted to push the stool away, lie down and let himself drift off right here, even knowing he's going to wake up cold and stiff halfway through the night.

Would Hanzo consider sleeping like that, too, or would it be beneath him? It's surprisingly easy to imagine how he might look sprawled in front of the fire, basking in warmth like a cat, relaxed and content. Looking up at McCree with a lazy challenge in his eyes and that smug smirk on his lips.

McCree swears quietly, takes a deep breath, leans back to stare at the dark ceiling. It must be the wine, or what remains of Ana's invigorating magic, or maybe unspent, leftover battle lust. Wouldn't be the first time his body responded to danger in a wholly inappropriate way.

First time while thinking of someone who is almost certainly a monster, though.

He tries to think of other, more important matters, like the goddamned job he's been hired for. He fails. The image not only persists, but grows increasingly detailed, vivid and shameless, and suddenly sleep is the last thing on his mind once again. Relieving the tension would help, but the very idea brings more thoughts of _him,_ and that's — that's just not right. A hunter does not fantasize about monsters, especially ones he might end up hunting.

On the other hand, Hanzo has amply proven that if they were to fight after all, McCree would likely wind up as the prey.

It's not a thought he'd ever entertained in this context before. The completely unexpected wave of arousal that follows is powerful enough to make him swear under his breath again and fist his hands in thick fur to resist touching himself.

No way. Not going there.

Except his mind does go there, of course. His imagination takes the thought and runs with it, shows it all in excruciating detail: Hanzo triumphant, grinning wickedly like he did earlier, before the fight. Himself — prey. Caught, disarmed and overpowered. At his mercy.

There's a knock on the door, three quick raps, and McCree finally registers the soft throbbing in his arm.

He jumps to his feet, heart racing and mind blank, and gapes at the door until another knock jolts his brain back to life. "Be right there!" he shouts, probably too loud, and scrambles to pull his boots back on before running to his bags. Doesn't let himself think about what he's doing, just digs out the amulet with only slightly trembling hands. The moment his fingers close around the stone, the warning vibration in his forearm simply cuts off. Just like that.

Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice of reason that sounds like Gabriel starts yelling about self-preservation. It has never been easier to ignore it.

The stone charm looks even smaller when tied around his left wrist, and deceptively fragile for how dangerous it is. McCree takes a deep breath, exhales hard and stands up. It takes all the control he's got to get himself together and walk to the door with the slow gait of someone who is absolutely not in a hurry.

At least his untimely arousal has flagged enough that he can open the door without shame.

He shivers in a gust of frigid air. Hanzo stands outside, dressed in blue and gold, bright in the darkness; the flickering light of the lamp he's holding gives a glow to the fabric of his robe, glints off the embroidery, dances in his eyes.

"May I come in?"

One doesn't need to be a hunter to know that one must _never_ invite a monster inside. Everyone knows it. Children are taught about it. Hanzo knows it too, judging by the little wry smile that lifts one corner of his mouth.

McCree wordlessly steps aside, holding the door open. Hanzo doesn't move, just glances down at the threshold, then up, still with that smile.

Right. The invitation has to be clear and spoken out loud. McCree clears his throat. "Come in," he says in a needlessly hushed voice.

Hanzo nods and walks past, close enough that the sleeve of his silk robe brushes McCree's hand. McCree trails after him, pulled by an invisible force. "Thought you didn't feel cold," he says when Hanzo sets the lamp down on the table and turns towards the fire, extending his hands.

Hanzo huffs quietly. "Why would you think that?"

"You keep going out there half naked."

"I do feel it. I just don't allow it to overcome me."

The amulet stays silent, but McCree feels like his whole body has started vibrating instead. He swallows and forces himself to breathe deeply, to try and slow the wild hammering of his heart. His skin tingles the way it sometimes does right before a storm; he can almost smell the rain in the air.

Hanzo glances at him, hands still outstretched towards the warmth. "Your aura is… different."

McCree lets out a huff of strangled laughter: as if he needed another reminder of whom he's just let into his room. Hanzo offers him another smirk, a raised eyebrow and a one-sided shrug: _you know that I know that you know._ The whole situation feels increasingly like a fever dream, but instead of pinching himself, McCree raises his left forearm in demonstration. No point hiding things now. "Ana," he adds by way of explanation.

Not exactly verbose, but Hanzo seems to understand anyway. He turns towards McCree and reaches out, and his fingers hover briefly near the makeshift bracelet, almost touching, before pulling away.

"She trusts too easily," he says. "And so do you."

"I don't trust you." The words don't feel like a lie when they roll off his tongue… but they don't quite sound like the truth either.

"Then why invite me in?"

"I don't know," McCree lies. "Why did you come?"

Hanzo laughs, a single, quick exhale. "For the same reason you let me in, I think."

The fire is blasting enough heat now that McCree can feel it prickling at his skin. He wishes fervently he could blame that warmth, or the wine, or _anything_ other than Hanzo's presence for the sudden lightheadedness he's feeling, but there are limits to how much he can lie to himself.

In front of him, Hanzo's smile slowly fades. McCree is taller, and he still somehow feels pinned under that dark, piercing gaze. He thinks he can name the emotion behind it. It's the same one that twists in the pit of his stomach and makes his fingertips feel numb, that burns in his lungs and makes his cock tent his pants again — so he takes a step forward and dips his head, and kisses the monster in his bedroom.

He knew — thought — _hoped_ Hanzo wanted it too, but he did not expect it returned so fiercely. Hanzo doesn't just kiss back. He pushes into it, groaning and licking into McCree's mouth immediately, like he's thought about it too, like he's wanted it as much as McCree did. All the shivery anticipation unravels in an instant, and they grasp for each other clumsily and kiss like they're trying to devour each other, until it's almost too much and McCree's head starts spinning, and he has to break away to breathe.

Hanzo is panting slightly too, but it doesn't stop him from slipping both hands under McCree's shirt and splaying his fingers wide, pressing greedily into the skin. McCree feels that touch all the way to his toes. It doesn't make it any easier to breathe, so he figures that's all the air he's going to get and he kisses Hanzo again. He tries to make it less urgent this time and it gets slower and deeper instead, until they both groan with how filthy it feels, and when Hanzo slowly drags blunt nails down his back, any hope of restraint he might have had left is irrevocably lost. 

He hisses and pulls Hanzo closer. It's more of a muscle spasm in reaction to the sting than any conscious decision, but it's a fantastic development regardless, because it makes Hanzo's cock press against the crease of his hip. McCree immediately wants it in his mouth. He considers dropping to his knees, but the kissing feels too good to stop just yet, so he grinds his own cock into the flat of Hanzo's stomach instead, groaning in relief at the pulse of pleasure. 

Hanzo seems to like it too, if the sudden hand in McCree's hair is any indication.

McCree barely has time to gasp before it happens. Hanzo yanks his head to the side and scrapes his teeth down the side of his neck, and maybe he's not reading McCree's mind, but he couldn't hit more of his weak points at once if he did. It ends the same way it always does: the pull at McCree's scalp is delicious and so are the teeth nipping at his skin, but together the sensations somehow magnify each other until they're almost too much to bear, and he shudders so hard that all the air escapes his lungs in a shaky gasp.

And Hanzo _stops_. Stops cold, lets go of his hair and pulls away, or tries to: McCree holds on to the belt he's been clumsily trying to undo and swallows a wordless whine of protest. "Don't stop," he says instead, doing his best to sound indignant rather than pleading. He's not sure he's successful. "Why are you—"

"I am _not_ a vampire," Hanzo interrupts with emphasis. "I was _not_ trying to hurt you."

His voice is lower and more gravelly than usual, and it doesn't do McCree's lust-addled mind any favors: he stares at the flush in Hanzo's cheeks for a good while before the words penetrate the fog. "I know," he replies finally, suppressing the deranged giggle he can feel bubbling in his chest. "I checked. It's fine."

Hanzo squints at him suspiciously. "You seemed distressed," he says, frowning.

McCree leans to his ear. "Not _that_ kind of distress," he murmurs, jutting his hips out just enough to make his point.

It's convincing enough, it seems, because Hanzo huffs quietly, shaking his head. "How did you survive this long?" he asks. The question is obviously rhetorical and he sounds a lot more composed than he ought to be right now, so instead of responding, McCree chooses to retaliate by biting down on the thick muscle down the side of his neck.

Hanzo stiffens and _growls_. It's quiet, barely there, and so low that McCree feels it under his lips more than he hears it. It's not a sound that a human throat should ever produce and definitely not a sound that should make him want more, but he's so far gone that it only fans the lust burning him up. He bites down again, this time hard enough to leave a mark on that too-pristine skin. The growl cuts off, and Hanzo shudders just as violently as McCree did before. "Down," he says, and McCree holds his breath in anticipation, thinks he's going to get pushed to his knees — but it's Hanzo who sinks to his knees and drags him down after him, and McCree lands on his back a moment later, just enough of the impact mitigated by Hanzo's hand fisted in his shirt that he doesn't hit his head on the floor.

McCree is not a small man. He's never had a lover capable of manhandling him this easily, and in that instant he understands why his own manhandling was always so enthusiastically received. He's not sure he managed to hold in the whimper, but he doesn't really care if he did, because Hanzo is on him immediately, astride his hips and licking into his mouth, pulling blindly at the buttons of his shirt. McCree goes for his belt again and finally manages to untangle it, right as Hanzo loses patience and yanks his shirt open the rest of the way, sending buttons flying.

"I need this shirt," he laughs against Hanzo's mouth.

Hanzo lets out a noise indicating that he thinks strongly otherwise, but at least he makes the effort to remove the left sleeve without ripping it off. It gives McCree time to push the robe off his shoulders and get him to shrug it off, and even mouth at the exposed tattooed shoulder a little before he's pushed back down. The fur feels blissfully cool against his overheated skin. Hanzo looks down at him, chest visibly heaving, eyes roaming hungrily in a way that makes McCree swallow hard and reach for his hips to pull him closer.

Hanzo doesn't budge an inch. A blink of an eye and he's holding McCree's wrists in a loose grip. McCree tests the hold: it's as unyielding as it's effortless, and it makes him bare his teeth with a hiss and buck under Hanzo's weight, grinding up roughly. Hanzo grunts, but he's still staring intently down, at some particular spot on McCree's body.

At first McCree thinks it's the arm, but then Hanzo lets go of his wrists and reaches towards his left bicep, fingers skimming the skin.

 _Oh_. "Yep, those are yours." McCree grins up at him and folds his arms under his head, putting the bruises on display and maybe flexing his muscles just a bit. "You like them, huh?"

Hanzo likes them a lot, apparently: he inhales raggedly, leans down and drags his tongue across the bruised skin. 

It's unexpected, and even more surprising for how good it feels. So good, in fact, that McCree struggles to hold in a truly embarrassing noise. He tries to pull the arm away, but Hanzo captures it in a vice-like grip and bites down on the bruises next, applying just enough pressure to send a bolt of pleasure-laced ache straight to McCree's already straining cock. There's no holding in noises after that. Hanzo torments the bruises until the skin becomes oversensitive and McCree pulls him off with a curse, and they start kissing again, Hanzo's fingers tangled in McCree's hair and McCree's hands roaming Hanzo's skin.

The silk of Hanzo's trousers is thin enough that his cock feels like a burning brand against McCree's stomach, and when his hips start moving restlessly, the temptation to touch it becomes too much. McCree snakes a hand between their bodies, but he doesn't even get to palm it properly: the moment his fingers skim the head, Hanzo's whole body jerks and his hand in McCree's hair tightens convulsively, and McCree instantly becomes useless once again, all muscles going slack and all the air escaping his lungs in a noisy rush. Hanzo pulls away just enough to look at him, mouth curving into a wicked smirk. 

"You like that, huh?" he parrots.

It takes a heroic effort to speak. "What do you _think_ ," McCree manages breathlessly.

Hanzo decides to go for his pants instead of answering, this time making it through the buttons without ripping any of them off, and McCree groans with relief when thick fingers close around his cock. He tries to buck into it, but Hanzo has made himself comfortable across his thighs and he's _heavy_ , and he's looking down and grinning victoriously exactly the way McCree imagined him before.

It's too much. McCree closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, scrunches the fabric of Hanzo's trousers in his hands. "You're going to make me embarrass myself," he mutters.

"It would be a compliment to my skills," Hanzo purrs, giving his cock a long, slow stroke. McCree grits his teeth and thumps his head against the floor. "I was worried I would be out of practice."

It's been so long since he's had anyone in his bed that even an unpracticed touch would do, but Hanzo is definitely skilled enough to torment him, at least. The firm, slow pulls are exactly enough to take the edge off and leave him panting for more at the same time. Hanzo rubs a slick thumb under the crown on one stroke, presses it against the slit on the next, then focuses on the head for a few exquisitely frustrating moments to suddenly slide a tight fist all the way down to the root. He's glancing between McCree's face and his cock as he does it, flushed and rapt and breathing shallowly, and there's a dark patch spreading on the blue silk stretched over the outline of his own cock; he's gorgeous, and McCree is dying to touch him.

Except he can't, because whenever he tries, he's effortlessly pushed back down. It's incredibly unfair, but at least it gets Hanzo to speed up the pace and start touching him greedily with the other hand. Hot fingers skim across his stomach and tangle in his chest hair, squeeze his waist, slide down to his balls and linger there — and Hanzo looks hungrier and hungrier while he does it, until McCree can't bear it anymore. He uses what little control he's got left over his muscles to reach out, cover Hanzo's hand with his own and guide him, and Hanzo exhales harshly and picks up the rhythm.

And he keeps _watching_. McCree feels exposed under that hungry stare, but somehow it makes it better, makes every sensation sharper, and it pushes him to the edge so fast it's almost overwhelming. He teeters on the brink for a while, panting helplessly and biting his lip not to beg, until Hanzo abruptly leans in to kiss him. The kiss is ravenous, and the angle of Hanzo's grip changes just so; the pleasure crests, locks up his muscles and his lungs, and Hanzo swallows his drawn-out, strangled moan and strokes him through it until the end.

"Come here," McCree croaks after the room has mostly stopped spinning. His limbs feel numb, but he's got enough control of his body to rise up on one elbow, and he hooks the other hand around Hanzo's waist to pull him forward.

Hanzo's eyes widen and his face contorts briefly with raw, unguarded lust. Watching him lose his composure is almost as good as the pleasure itself: his hands shake when he unties his trousers and pushes them out of the way, and he all but scrambles forward on his knees, eager and gloriously undignified. The sound he makes when given one last encouraging push, a quiet growling moan, sends a fresh shiver down McCree's spine — but despite that growl, he's strangely gentle when he cups the back of McCree's head and slides between his parted lips.

He moves almost timidly at first, too. McCree can feel him shake with the effort of holding back. It's entirely unnecessary, so he screws his mouth tight, hums and nudges Hanzo's ass encouragingly with the free hand, and sure enough, the next thrust comes sharper and deeper; Hanzo doesn't need much convincing to get a bit rougher, and McCree gets him exactly where he wants him in no time at all.

He loses himself in the sensations for a while. Hanzo's taste, his smell, the heat and weight of his cock on McCree's tongue and the way his muscles flex under McCree's hand, and all the deliciously filthy sounds he's making — it's a different kind of bliss but no less intense, overwhelming in the best way, growing warm and tight in the pit of his stomach. He's missed this. He'd gladly keep going until that warmth sharpened into a need again, but he knows it's going to be over soon: Hanzo is trembling and gasping already, and his fingers are slowly tightening in McCree's hair. All he needs is a push to tumble over the edge.

McCree could deny him that push. He could ease the pressure and keep him on that edge for a little longer at least, but he doesn't have it in him to be cruel, and besides, he wants to see Hanzo fall apart. Wants to _make_ him fall apart. He looks up and into Hanzo's eyes, glassy with pleasure and wide with desperation, and groans around his cock, loud and shameless, makes it clear just how much he's enjoying himself — and Hanzo comes immediately, bowing over him and shaking, eyebrows drawn and eyes squeezing shut.

The room is suddenly so quiet that McCree's breath sounds thunderously loud. Hanzo crawls off his chest and sits heavily on the floor, and McCree flops onto his back and focuses on getting his lungs under control.

He stares at the shadows dancing on the ceiling, inhales deeply, holds it, releases it in a sigh. His mind is blissfully empty, but he can feel unpleasant thoughts crowding at the edges already, and he's fully intent on ignoring them for as long as he can. The fire is still burning high enough, but a small gust of cold air licks his skin and makes him shiver. Being covered in his own release doesn't help, even if half of it is probably smeared all over Hanzo's clothes now.

Hanzo doesn't seem bothered by it, at least. McCree turns his head and watches him stand up, adjust his trousers and walk over to the basin of water. He manages to catch the freezing cold washcloth thrown at him before it lands on his stomach, but then he has to steel himself and drag it across his skin anyway. His fingers feel stiff and clumsy as he tucks himself back in and does his trousers back up.

So, that happened.

He closes his eyes and lies back down, throwing an arm over his eyes. He's not prepared to deal with this right now. He's had a long day. He fought monsters. He _slept_ with one. He's tired. He's earned the right to not think at all until tomorrow.

Hanzo is back to moving like a ghost: McCree can barely hear his footsteps. He knows he's still there mostly because he can hear the whisper of a silk robe being lifted from the floor and feel the swirl of displaced air. Then — silence. He should probably say something, but that would require thinking. Assuming Hanzo is still there; he could have disappeared the same way he appeared earlier at the battlements.

Besides, Hanzo could say something, too.

The growing uneasiness finally forces him to lift the arm from his eyes. Hanzo is standing nearby, fully dressed and watching him. Composed and wholly inscrutable. McCree knows he should say something, except he's got nothing but a vicious whirlwind of thoughts he's barely holding at bay.

Well, there's one thing he could safely ask. "Are you going to tell me who you are, now?"

"No."

Decisive and immediate. McCree snorts and lets his head fall back to the floor.

Hanzo walks over to the table, picks up the lamp. Pauses briefly by McCree on his way to the door. "Goodnight," he says with the tiniest hint of a smile.

From the floor, with Hanzo's face half shadowed, McCree has no hope of deciphering that smile. He mutters a "g'night" in response, and closes his eyes at the sound of a closing door.

The room is suddenly too big and too quiet, empty and cold despite the still burning fire. After another gust of chilly air licks his ribs, McCree pushes himself upright, adds a few pieces of wood to the hearth and picks his shirt up from the floor. It's missing three buttons. Searching for them can definitely wait until tomorrow.

He drains what's left of the wine, sheds the rest of his clothes onto the floor and falls into bed, hoping that after the _very_ long day he's had, the exhaustion alone will put him to sleep.

It doesn't, of course. It's not even that he's done something foolish and dangerous, because that's not new. Going directly against Gabriel's teachings is not exactly new either, even if he's never disregarded _this_ particular lesson before. Like many other stupid things he's done in his life, this one was worth it, too.

The real problem is that there's a part of him that desperately wanted to ask Hanzo to _stay_.


	3. Chapter 3

McCree always rises with the sun. The strict morning routine was the very first thing Gabriel had taught him, back when he was nothing but an angry, skinny thief, and he might have disregarded many other lessons over the years, but this one stuck with him for good.

This morning is no different: somehow his body knows when the darkness outside starts giving way to light and jolts him into awareness, a tense moment of taking stock of his surroundings before he remembers where he is and relaxes again.

He doesn't linger in bed; after all these years, he probably wouldn't know how to. He does spare one long, mournful sigh before abandoning the warm featherbed to face another dark and chilly dawn. The fire has long died out, and it's so cold in the room it's a wonder the water in the basin hasn't iced over. He looks around for the washcloth for a while, suppressing the shivers, before he remembers: it's right where he left it last night, on the floor next to the hearth. The memory, gold-tinted and vivid, makes him flush hot even despite the cold. It's all too easy to recall the events of the evening. 

The bed is still warm, and he's as safe as can be in the heart of the castle. He's got time to spare. It would be quick.

And it is quick. Back under the covers, eyes closed, he thinks of the way Hanzo looked poised above him: the burning gaze, the hungry smile, the greedy touch. The heat of his skin and his kisses. The way his restraint crumbled at the end. He's tempted to slow down, to drag it out a little longer than usual, but then he makes a mistake of imagining Hanzo's mouth on his cock, and it pushes him towards completion so quickly it's almost disappointing. Fast enough that he laughs quietly at himself when he's done.

Then the chill seeps back in, and with it comes guilty conscience he does his best to ignore. It was just another encounter with a stranger, he reasons while putting on his last clean shirt. Not the first, not the last. Both parties satisfied and no harm done, even if this time he's risked a lot more than catching lice or an embarrassing disease.

Except that never before did he want to keep someone in his bed after the best part was over. Too risky, even if he were able to fall asleep naked and defenseless next to a stranger. Hanzo is the strangest of all his lovers by far, one he has a very real reason to mistrust or even fear — and yet. He almost wishes he could blame that sudden desire on whatever magical influence Hanzo might have over people, knowingly or not, but no. Any foolish impulses are guaranteed to be his own.

In the end, he decides it's the loneliness that's getting to him; that, and the coming winter. It's been years, and he's still not used to weathering winters alone. That thought gets rid of any good mood he might have had left over, so he finishes the last few tasks with grim efficiency and sets out to find food. Unpleasant truths are easier to handle on a full stomach.

* * *

McCree's not the most courteous of them all, but as a rule of thumb, he always greets his lovers politely if he happens to run into them again. He might smile suggestively if he wouldn't object to a repeat, maybe engage in some pleasantries if the encounter was good enough to be memorable — but he's still not sure what to do when he inevitably runs into Hanzo.

There's no denying that he would want more, if it wasn't for the unsolved mystery of Hanzo's true nature. Actually, the problem has only gotten worse: there's a new question, equally baffling, of why Hanzo would choose a _monster hunter_ of all people as his company for the night.

McCree's not hard on the eyes, but an irresistible beauty he is not. There's nothing about him that would justify the risk.

There's also a chance Hanzo will take the decision out of his hands. He _seemed_ to enjoy himself, but there's still that inscrutable look on his face before he left the room last night. Maybe he wasn't quite as satisfied as McCree had thought. Maybe he prefers his lovers more refined than McCree could ever hope to be. Maybe he's used to silks and perfumes, and the soft skin of people who never worked a day in their lives. McCree smells of tobacco and leather on a good day, and he's been collecting scars for as long as he remembers. And then there's the left hand, forged from a fallen star, wrapped in enough enchantments to fill a grimoire.

He doesn't arrive to any useful conclusion before he reaches the kitchens. At least he's still got time to think, and that, too, will be easier after he's filled his stomach.

Ana and Jack must have woken up early as well. They're sat at one end of a long table, discussing something with one of the lord's retainers; Ana talks animatedly, drawing shapes on the table with her finger, while Jack watches with his usual grim frown. McCree's too far away to hear anything, so he keeps walking, trying to guess the meaning of the drawings based on the movements of Ana's finger alone.

…Wait. That's no retainer.

McCree stops dead in his tracks.

Without his usual fancy clothes, in a simple linen shirt and woolen trousers, Hanzo is hardly recognizable. Unassuming, even, especially with his hair tied loosely at the nape instead of gathered in the usual tight, disciplined ponytail. Now he's just as unremarkable as the dozen other people breaking their fast in the kitchen — until he looks up from the surface of the table, that is, because the plain clothes don't make him any less handsome.

He should look out of place without all the silk, but somehow he doesn't. In fact, McCree almost prefers him like this. The linen and wool do his powerful body more favors than the silk ever did.

Jack is the first to notice McCree standing still and staring. Luckily, he mistakes McCree's dumbstruck state for hesitation and scoots silently to the left, making more space on the bench. Coming from Jack it's practically a cordial invitation, one that McCree can't refuse, especially that both Hanzo's and Ana's heads have now turned his way as well. Ana bids him a cheerful good morning as he takes the empty seat, and Hanzo — Hanzo pauses with a spoon halfway to his mouth, holds his gaze for a fleeting moment, then nods in greeting with an absolutely neutral expression before returning to his meal. 

McCree's stomach sinks so fast he briefly feels queasy.

At least he's got enough reason left to realize that Hanzo can hardly do anything else in a crowded kitchen. If he wishes to, that is. And if he doesn't, it's for the better. In fact, the only thing McCree should be worried about is his own reaction. Again.

Hanzo swallows his spoonful of soup and looks up again, still utterly expressionless. "I trust you slept well?" he inquires politely.

This time it's McCree's heart that attempts to jump out of his chest. He schools his features into a cordial smile. "Good enough, thank you," he replies with the lazy calm he absolutely does not feel. "Yourself?"

"Acceptably."

The subtext lays thickly over the small talk, and yes, there's a peculiar glint in Hanzo's eyes now, even if at first glance he still appears indifferent. McCree feels warmth creeping up his neck. If anything, Hanzo's straight face only makes the exchange more thrilling, like they're confidants sharing an illicit secret — which, well, they more or less are.

It's so hard not to stare at him, especially in that shirt, with that hair. A few strands of it have come loose and Hanzo has tucked them behind his ear, and one of them slips out as McCree watches; McCree's fingers itch with a sudden urge to reach out and tuck it back where it belongs, to see if that would finally draw out one of Hanzo's smiles. There's a different kind of warmth spreading in his chest now, one that has nothing to do with shared secrets or physical pleasure, and it makes him feel like he's nineteen again. Deep down, it's also utterly terrifying.

"Unusual to see you not wearing silk," he says to distract himself before the terror surfaces.

Hanzo glances up from his bowl again. "My usual clothing is in need of a wash," he replies mildly.

McCree happens to know the circumstances in which Hanzo's clothes got soiled. In fact, he remembers them with enough detail that he barely notices the breakfast put in front of him.

Hanzo holds his gaze for a beat before looking away, and a tiny smirk finally appears on his lips.

McCree may be thrilled to see that smirk, but his stomach is not, and it finally reminds him of its existence with a loud and disgruntled rumble. The distraction is welcome; by the time he's devoured both the soup and the generous chunk of bread, he's more or less regained full possession of his faculties. It's pretty clear that Hanzo isn't opposed to at least flirting. It's just as clear that McCree shouldn't succumb to the temptation. Shouldn't stare at him, shouldn't daydream of the dangerous affair, and definitely shouldn't think about any possible continuation. Nothing good lies at the end of that road.

Hell, it doesn't even feel right to think of Hanzo as a _monster_ anymore. That alone should be enough of a warning even for his reckless self.

He glances at his forearm, at the plate hiding the amulets, and Ana's charm gleams on his wrist. Yet another thing he shouldn't be doing — but on the other hand, it was still worth it. The memory alone will carry him through many a cold night.

The thought is unexpectedly bitter. He washes it down with a long gulp of beer. Not the time to feel sorry for himself.

"I forgot to compliment you on your open-mindedness last night," Hanzo murmurs across him, barely loud enough to be heard over the din of a busy kitchen. "It was truly remarkable."

The dark thoughts scatter immediately, if only because he almost chokes on his drink out of sheer surprise. For a moment he thinks he must have misheard, but no, Hanzo is looking directly at him, straight-faced again and calm like he didn't just throw all subtlety out of the window.

Well, McCree can definitely match him in _that_ regard. "Couldn't resist an argument as persuasive as yours," he replies smoothly. It takes everything he's got not to grin and he's not sure he's fully successful, but he's definitely faring better than Hanzo, who is very obviously fighting a smile now.

In his peripheral vision, Jack pinches the bridge of his nose.

"As I was saying before you joined us," Ana begins pointedly.

* * *

It takes all of his willpower and what's left of his good reason to stop himself from following Hanzo out of the kitchens. Not that it matters much; if he did, they wouldn't even have time for another exchange of subtext-laden pleasantries before the summons to the daily council. At least this time it's short and to the point. The lord has taken the conclusion of the previous night as a sure sign that victory is guaranteed, and the general expectation appears to be that the evening will bring nothing but more of the same.

McCree has his doubts. Witches are rarely stupid, and last night's strategy obviously didn't work. Judging by Hanzo's expression when their eyes meet across the table, he's of a similar opinion. It's not that McCree is looking at him on purpose, it just seems to happen every time someone says something that begs for a commentary: he glances at Hanzo and finds him already looking, raising his eyebrows or scoffing silently, and the third time it happens he can't contain a grin. He's rewarded by the sight of Hanzo hiding a smile behind a fist raised to his mouth.

All of that does nothing to quell the warmth that has taken root in his chest, and he doesn't have the strength to fight it. Not even remembering every gory detail of Gabriel's cautionary tales helps. He thinks of all the hunters lost to demons, sirens, vampires, countless monsters with a human appearance and an appetite for human bodies or minds — and then he catches Hanzo's gaze again, and risking his life becomes a strangely distant concern.

There _are_ some monsters out there that don't necessarily prey on humans. Shapeshifters, for example. Hanzo isn't one, but he could be something else, something that lives peacefully in human form, harmless enough to go unnoticed by hunters. Gabriel would laugh at the notion and call him delusional, of course. McCree can almost hear the flat tone and see the exasperated eye roll: _one of these days you'll run out of dumb luck and get yourself killed._

On the other hand, Gabriel is gone and McCree's still around, and following his instincts has never failed him before.

Well, maybe once or twice, but still.

He's overthinking this whole thing anyway. A couple more days, and none of this will matter anymore. Until then, regardless of potentially disastrous liaisons, McCree can still be responsible in the areas that matter. He leaves immediately after the council is dismissed, with renewed resolve and without a single glance back.

The plan is to take stock of the state of the gates: if the portcullis suffered enough damage, they may need to take the fight in the courtyard next time. As strategy considerations go, this one is pretty obvious. It's probably why after maybe a dozen steps Hanzo catches up and silently falls in stride at McCree's side, thus destroying both his resolve and his focus.

McCree had assumed that Hanzo's effortlessly arrogant aura came at least partially from the exotic and rich clothing. Turns out he was mistaken. Hanzo marches with the purpose of a commander about to inspect his troops, so much that the guards posted on the way instinctively stand at attention, nevermind that he's wearing clothes that could easily belong to a servant and he's armed with nothing but a dagger at his belt. There's no way McCree could confuse him for anyone else, much less a retainer, had he seen him like this and not slouched over a bowl of soup at the breakfast table.

In a way, Hanzo looks even better than usual, perhaps because there's nothing to pull attention away from his too-perfect self.

McCree succumbs to the temptation to comment on it after they step out into the courtyard. "These clothes suit you," he says.

Hanzo gives him a skeptical side-eye. "I look like a peasant," he replies matter-of-factly.

McCree snorts with surprised laughter. "You couldn't look like a peasant if you tried," he explains when Hanzo arches his eyebrows questioningly. "Once a noble, always a noble, no matter what you wear. Peasants don't carry themselves like that."

"Like what?"

"Like… I don't know. Like lords of all that surrounds them."

Hanzo just lets out another of his enigmatic hums. "We should do our best to finish this quickly," he says, glancing at the sky. "Snow is coming. A few more days, and we'll be fighting knee deep in a snowdrift."

"That another of your abilities? Predicting weather?"

Hanzo actually slows down to give him a flat look before picking up the pace again. "Reading the clouds is not a mystical skill, McCree."

McCree considers pointing out that the clouds don't look any different than the day before. "Call me Jesse," he says instead on a sudden impulse. "Think we're on friendly enough terms now."

"Are we?" Hanzo asks blandly, but McCree can read him well enough now, and there's a smile hiding in the corners of his eyes.

He's tempted to say something crass, to see if he can shock Hanzo into an expression other than lordly indifference, but the courtyard is busy enough for several people to overhear any saucy details he might want to bring up. "Pretty sure we are," he says instead, lowering his voice just enough to border on suggestive.

Hanzo turns his head abruptly. The flash of heat in his eyes lasts no longer than a heartbeat, and he looks away quickly, but it's enough to rob McCree of all the air in his lungs. He narrowly avoids stumbling on a cobblestone, blindsided by the memory of last night; suddenly he wants nothing more than to forget everything else and drag Hanzo back to his room.

Of course, the thought of dragging Hanzo anywhere is absurd enough that once he's caught his breath again, he huffs out a silent laugh.

"I am willing to discuss this newfound friendliness of yours," Hanzo says after a while, staring resolutely ahead. "Later."

This is where McCree should say no, according to every bit of common sense he's got left. "Looking forward to it," he murmurs instead.

There's a loud clang from the direction of the gates just as he speaks, drowning out most of his words, but the way Hanzo bites his lip makes it clear he heard the response perfectly well.

* * *

They decide to take the battle directly outside the gate this time, but once the fog creeps onto the castle once again, only a few constructs lumber out of the wall of white. They are slower than before, slow enough to be dispatched even before they make it to the door. McCree's instinct screams it's a bait, and with his ears plugged in defense against gargoyles, surrounded by a wall of soft white stillness, under a slowly circling ring of Ana's lights, he feels very much like a target.

Hanzo is the only one without protective wax in his ears, so McCree watches him instead: the living extension to their senses, standing still a few steps ahead with that tell-tale tilt of his head. Every small movement, every minute turn of Hanzo's head, and McCree's grip on the crossbow tightens in anticipation of an attack that doesn't come; he hates relying on Hanzo's unnaturally acute senses as their only defense against an ambush, but a part of him thrives on the danger, and another part is entranced with how utterly focused Hanzo is.

Then, finally, Hanzo turns his head sharply, and in one smooth, uninterrupted motion steps back — draws — aims at something — fires, and a familiar sharp shriek pierces the air.

It's a much harder battle than before. Despite Ana's efforts, the area free of fog is only ever wide enough to allow them one chance to react to the gargoyles diving out of the darkness. In the worst of it, McCree ends up almost back to back with Hanzo, as close as their weapons allow, and he finds that it's suddenly easy not only to turn his back to Hanzo, but to trust him to keep it safe.

Fortunately, he's too busy to ponder the implications.

Even the buzz of Ana's magic can't outweigh the ache of his muscles after the shrieks are finally silenced. It's a small miracle that they're all in one piece. Somehow, after the whirlwind of teeth, claws and leathery wings in the dark, the worst injury any of them have suffered is a set of bloody gashes on Hanzo's right arm, which he appears utterly unconcerned with.

"You could at least pretend it hurts," McCree grumbles on their way back to the castle. He can't see the wounds clearly in this light, he's not even sure they're still there anymore, hidden under the ripped remains of Hanzo's sleeve as they are, but what he saw when Ana first inspected the injury was enough to warrant a sympathetic wince.

"Oh woe is me," Hanzo intones flatly.

"Someone's bound to eventually notice, you know."

"There's nobody around but us." Hanzo's eyes glint amber in the light of the torch. "Are you implying I should be worried about the discretion of present company?"

"I'm implying you should be more careful," McCree mutters, eyeing the sizable group already gathering around Ana and Jack. "I'm not the only hunter around."

Hanzo doesn't reply, likely because the guards are now within earshot. McCree sighs; he's looking forward to several things, including but not limited to food and rest, and reporting and answering questions aren't on the list. He wonders if whoever brought him water last night is going to do so again. Fighting in the courtyard meant less grass, but more mud and possibly horse shit as well —

"My room is at the eastern end of the wing," Hanzo says quietly.

McCree's thoughts grind to a screeching halt. He stops, mouth open, even though he has no idea what to say. Hanzo graces him with his favorite obnoxious smirk and keeps walking, the bastard, right into the crowd gathered past the open door. 

* * *

There's water waiting for him again, and food, and wine, and even a bunch of wilting autumn flowers in a vase, a simple gesture that does funny things to McCree's throat. Something tells him that the flowers are a personal touch: a silent thank-you from one of the people who might have had to pay their lord's debts with their blood, had McCree not been hired to prevent it.

Gratitude can't buy food or shelter, but it does serve as a reminder that he's in this line of work not only for the money.

By the time he's cleaned up and eaten, the buzz of magic and adrenaline has started giving way to exhaustion. He hesitates briefly, trapped halfway between the bed and the door, but the memory of the heat in Hanzo's gaze is enough to push him forward. McCree rubs the goosebumps off his forearm and thumbs the intertwined stones at his wrist, takes a fortifying breath and steps out into the cold, dark corridor.

Hanzo's door is cracked open, painting an orange line across the stone floor. It gives easily under the push of his hand.

The room doesn't differ much from his own. The drapes are a different color and there's a thick carpet on the floor, and a faint scent of incense hangs in the fire-warmed air. Hanzo kneels in front of the fire, on the edge of the carpet, back ramrod straight and hands resting loosely on his thighs. He's shirtless. The bloody gashes on his arm are gone, as if they never existed. McCree isn't surprised; in truth, he would be more surprised if the wounds were still there by now.

Hanzo turns his head just in time to notice the direction of McCree's gaze and smiles, equal parts warm and wry.

McCree just shakes his head. "You could at least pretend to respect my profession," he sighs. It's hard to sound put-upon when Hanzo is smiling like that, but he does his best anyway.

Hanzo rises gracefully from his knees and walks into the arms McCree did not notice outstretching. "Why would I lie to you?" he replies, the smile taking on a decidedly impish edge. He silences McCree's indignant response with a kiss, fists both hands in the front of his shirt and starts walking backwards, towards the bed, pulling a completely disarmed McCree along.

The pillows smell of juniper and incense. Hanzo deftly avoids McCree's pawing and takes his time peeling off their clothes, but any impatience McCree might feel dissolves quickly in the warmth and comfort of the bed. After the exertion of the fight he feels like he's floating on a cloud, and he finds himself strangely content to just relax and let Hanzo do whatever he wants. And, after all the clothes are off, what Hanzo seems to want is to sit back across his thighs and just watch him. McCree doesn't know what has him so captivated, but he puts on a little show just because he can, flexing his muscles and stretching indulgently, and that, too, feels blissfully good. It also turns out the be the right strategy to get Hanzo close again, mouth to mouth and skin to skin.

Hanzo kisses him slowly, with no trace of the earlier urgency, and lets him flip them over without protest. It's McCree's turn to feast his eyes, then, to touch and watch Hanzo react, hear every gasp and feel every shiver until the need to be close overpowers everything else. It's all so languid and strangely gentle compared to the last time: the hunger is still there, but lazy and patient instead of razor sharp, and time dissolves into a long warm blur of indulgent touches and gasping breaths. It's McCree who eventually runs out of patience and takes them both in hand, and watches Hanzo's unrestrained pleasure until his own forces his eyes to close.

Afterwards, as they lie exhausted, Hanzo idly pets McCree's back. His hand leaves a warm, tingling trail from the nape of McCree's neck to his lower back, rises and slowly retraces its path again, and again. It feels so good McCree would purr if he could, and he nearly falls asleep with his face turned into one of the juniper-scented pillows before he realizes, in a sharp burst of clarity, what he's doing.

Hanzo shrugs on a robe and pours himself wine while McCree gets dressed. "Where will you go when this is over?" he asks suddenly.

McCree is tired, and the truth is on the tip of his tongue before he realizes it; he swallows it at the last moment. "Somewhere warmer. South, probably," he replies instead. Hanzo doesn't need to know where exactly he spends most of his winters. "There's not much north from here save for the mountains, and it's too late to try to cross them."

"Hm. There's always work for a monster hunter in the western marshes."

McCree makes a face. "I like my ground solid and steady, thanks."

"Marshes can freeze solid," Hanzo quips.

McCree laughs despite the sudden tightness in his chest. "I might stay here for a while instead if the snows come early," he says. "Sir Wilhelm has generously extended the invitation."

Hanzo hums again and drinks. McCree watches his throat, unmarked despite his best efforts, and heroically looks up before his gaze slides too far down Hanzo's body, uncovered by the robe he did not bother to fasten. Hanzo notices, of course, and quirks an eyebrow with a smirk — and McCree falters for the second time. If Hanzo said something now, if he asked McCree to stay… he probably would.

But Hanzo doesn't say anything. It's time to go. McCree pulls on his shirt, smiles back, and resists the urge to walk over to Hanzo to kiss him again. "Goodnight," he says quietly instead.

"Rest well," Hanzo replies just as quietly.

McCree steps out into the darkness and closes the door.

* * *

On the third day, the fog doesn't come.

They wait fruitlessly after the sun comes down, an hour, maybe two, until neither the gatehouse's brazier nor Ana's magic can ward off the chill. Even Hanzo inches closer to the fire, both sleeves of his freshly laundered garb on and the collar tightened as far as it can go. It occurs to McCree that they could share some warmth if they were to stand close to each other, and the thought lodges itself in his head and won't let go, no matter how much he tries to focus on anything else.

Eventually, Ana gives up. The cold is too much for her bones, she says, while Jack stoically pretends his own are exempt from the ailments of old age. She and Hanzo step away from the rest and have a quiet conversation in a corner, after which Ana removes one of her many necklaces and puts it over Hanzo's head. Hanzo closes a fist around the pendant and frowns, and Ana nods at him and smiles; McCree does his best not to take offense at the fact that Ana chose Hanzo over him for whatever magic just happened.

"We have a means of notifying her if the witch does decide to attack," Hanzo explains, unasked, after Ana and Jack have left. "Your amulets could have interfered."

McCree huffs. "I'm that obvious, huh."

"Subtlety is not your strong suit."

In the quiet of the night, Hanzo's tone comes through as something McCree might be tempted to interpret as fond, if he didn't know better. "Do you think the witch exhausted herself?" he asks to silence his thoughts.

"Maybe." Hanzo sounds doubtful. "There are certain… rules. Number have significance. It would be very unusual for her to give up before the third attempt."

"Didn't know you were so knowledgeable about magic."

"Hm. I'm surprised you are not." Hanzo's tone is judgmental, but the amused expression betrays him.

"I'm a monster hunter, not a witch hunter. I stay out of their business and they stay out of mine. Usually," he amends, to Hanzo's soft huff.

Across the fire, Hanzo folds his arms tightly. Whatever he is, he's _got_ to be cold right now. Even a werebear would be cold standing still in this persistent, cold draft. McCree's got enough layers on to ward off most of it, but Hanzo stubbornly sticks to silks that would be more suited for summer…

Ah, damn it all to hell.

Hanzo eyes him suspiciously as he shuffles closer. "It's cold," McCree says by way of explanation; it occurs to him that he probably should have asked beforehand. "We could share warmth? Not _that_ way," he adds hastily when Hanzo's eyebrows start to rise. "Just, you know. Standing closer to each other. If that's alright with you."

Hanzo stares, still as a statue, for just long enough for McCree to start seriously regretting the impulse. "We spent the night together," he says slowly, " _twice_ , and this is a request you're struggling with?"

He does have a point, even though there's a vital difference between these things, which McCree fails to nail down only because it's late, and because they have once again ended up alone together in the middle of the night, which is distracting — but as he tries to articulate the thought, Hanzo simply steps in front of him and leans against his chest.

"It is a good idea, either way," he says. "This chill is unpleasant."

McCree is left with no choice but to bring up his arms and embrace him, link his fingers together under Hanzo's still folded arms, and admit to himself that he no longer has any idea what he's doing.

He closes his eyes. A faint scent of incense mixes with the smell of woodsmoke and he wants to chase that elusive note, to nose at Hanzo's black hair in search of more of that scent. He wants to nip at Hanzo's ear and kiss the delicate skin behind it, see if it he'd like it, if he'd turn his face towards McCree's for a proper kiss. He does neither of these things; he keeps carefully still instead, listening to Hanzo's calm breath and trying to will his heart into slowing down.

It's so much worse, so much scarier than just spending the night together. They're fully dressed and standing in front of the fire, nothing more, and yet McCree feels more exposed than he did after nearly falling asleep in Hanzo's bed. It finally becomes too much when he realizes that Hanzo is still listening for incoming enemies, and can probably hear his galloping heartbeat.

He clears his throat. "We talked about me, but where will _you_ head when this is over?" he asks.

Hanzo is quiet for a while. "I haven't decided yet," he answers finally. "The south has a more agreeable climate. The west, more work for a mercenary."

"And the east?"

"Not worth the effort. It's mostly villages, a couple of small towns. Even if they do have work for people like us, they are unlikely to pay well."

The follow-up question hangs in the air, obvious yet unspoken. McCree bites the inside of his cheek to keep his mouth closed. This must be how getting charmed feels like, this constant urge to do or say stupid things. Whatever this is, it will soon be over. It doesn't matter where either of them goes.

"What's the matter?"

McCree stiffens in surprise. "What?"

"You were holding your breath."

Oh. "Nothing. Just thinking."

Hanzo laughs so quietly McCree feels it rather than hears it. "Are you saying you're incapable of thinking and breathing at the same time?"

"Hey now," McCree grouses, unable to stop the stupid grin from bleeding into his voice.

They fall silent again. Hanzo's chest rises and falls under McCree's hands in a slow, steady rhythm. With every couple of breaths, his posture loses some of the rigidity and he leans against McCree just a little more, until finally he sighs and his head tips back to rest against McCree's shoulder.

For a moment, time stands still. McCree doesn't have to acknowledge this. He doesn't have to respond. This doesn't need to mean anything. Nothing needs to change at all.

He turns his head, very slowly, until his cheek touches Hanzo's temple. He closes his eyes again. The warmth in his chest, the tightness in his throat — it all feels like surrender.

Maybe he will ask Hanzo if he'd like to travel together for a while, after all. Maybe there is something to all the talk about fate and destiny and such. Maybe he's been fighting the inevitable. Why would this feel so good, so _right_ otherwise?

He loses track of time for a while after that. His mind drifts, anchored by the reassuring warm weight pressed against him, lulled by the whispering of the fire and Hanzo's slow, steady breath. They have only been standing like this for minutes, probably, but it feels like hours have passed, and it leaves him strangely calm and settled, as if the clamoring thoughts in his head quietened down all at once.

Then Hanzo tenses up. His body goes from relaxed to rigid in an instant, so suddenly that McCree lets go of him in surprise. The peace shatters.

"She's here," Hanzo says urgently.

McCree doesn't bother asking questions. They both leap to the narrow window, but there is no fog still, castle grounds are clear in the light of the waxing moon, empty of any movement. They look at each other. Hanzo's frown deepens.

"Courtyard," they say in unison, just as the portcullis below them starts rising, the sound deafening in the silence.

Three quick movements, and Hanzo's left sleeve is off. Two more, and he's striding towards the door, quiver across his back, bow in hand. McCree bites back a curse, snatches the crossbow and runs after him. It would be wiser to grab a torch instead of running down the stairs with only the moon to light the way, but Hanzo is already too far ahead — and then the bastard vaults over the edge, skips two flights of stairs and lands below, in the courtyard, leaving McCree even further behind.

"Goddammit, Hanzo," he growls, hoping he gets heard.

The grating noise of the portcullis stops just before he jumps over the last few stairs. He breathes easier when he sees Hanzo standing ahead, in the middle of the well-lit area just outside the gate, facing whatever is about to come through. 

Then he sees the witch.

There is no doubt it's her. The thick ring of fog churning wildly around her feet is hard to miss. The glamour is less obvious, but not subtle either to anyone who knows how to look. She's guaranteed to be shielded, but McCree raises the crossbow anyway, as a declaration of intent more than any real threat. The witch doesn't even spare him a glance; her attention seems focused on Hanzo only as she walks forward unhurriedly, the roiling fog dragging behind her like the train of a ball gown.

She stops in a respectable distance from them — or rather from Hanzo, who's standing still with the bow held loosely in his hand, undrawn. McCree might as well be a boulder for all the attention he receives. 

"These lands are already claimed," the witch says. She has a beautiful, melodic voice. Glamour can't change a voice, but she's enhanced it in a different way: the last word echoes strangely, even though they're standing in the middle of the courtyard, with nothing around them for the sound to bounce off. "And you are not welcome here." 

"Your land does not interest me," Hanzo replies haughtily. "As this castle should not interest you."

The witch smiles, but her gaze remains flinty. "The castle stands on my land, and the man who rules it needs to be taught a lesson."

"These people are under my protection." Every inch of Hanzo's posture radiates calm arrogance, like he's not only her equal, but her superior. Even his tone is laced with disdain. "And you are out of pawns. Leave."

The witch narrows her eyes, and the ring of fog around her feet starts spreading out in slow, heartbeat-like pulses. McCree tightens the grip on the crossbow. Shield or not, a shot should at least distract her if Hanzo goads her into attacking.

She doesn't attack. "Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong," she says coldly instead. "Go find your puppets elsewhere. This place is mine."

McCree's mouth dries up. _Puppets?_

Hanzo doesn't take his gaze off the witch, but McCree could swear there's a tension in his stance that wasn't there a moment before.

The ring of fog spreads past McCree's feet, wisps of it swirling lazily around his boots, and the witch glances at him, as if she's only now noticed his presence. Her smile turns vicious. "I see you've gotten yourself a pet already," she says sweetly.

She's trying to get a rise out of him. Trying to make him turn on Hanzo. It's the oldest trick in the book. He _knows_ this, but the burning ring around his ribs grows tighter anyway.

"And a monster hunter, too. How deliciously ironic. Tell me, hunter, how does it feel to be a _pet_?"

The way she spits out the last word only makes it more obvious that this is nothing but a tactic. McCree keeps his face impassive and his aim unwavering, even though his jaw is starting to hurt. "You're going to have to try harder than that," he replies flatly.

"And such a loyal pet, too," she coos, her attention back on Hanzo already. "How sweet. Isn't it too bad that humans are so _fragile_?"

The ring of fog surrounding them starts rising in a white wall, blocking out the lights as it thickens. McCree keeps his breath even: they still have the moonlight. If the fog closes above them, they're screwed. Or rather, he's screwed. Hanzo is going to be fine. 

"Touch a hair on his head, or anyone else's in this place, and I will rip you apart." Hanzo's tone remains calm, but the sound of his voice makes McCree's blood run cold.

It wasn't only Hanzo that spoke just now. It was _two voices._ Two distinct voices in perfect unison, Hanzo's and alongside it another one, much deeper, almost growling, inhuman and so unsettling that McCree's aim falters briefly before he collects himself. He glances at Hanzo, mouth dry. Hanzo looks the same as before, except now the tension in the lines of his body is evident. He looks like a predator getting ready to pounce.

The witch is either powerful or arrogant enough to ignore the threat entirely. "I don't think you will," she says derisively. "I think you'll leave and take your puppet with you before I turn him inside out."

"I'd like to see you try," McCree drawls before Hanzo can respond. He's got nothing on Hanzo when it comes to disdainful tone, but he makes a decent attempt anyway: if she doesn't know about his amulets, she's not nearly as powerful as she makes herself out to be.

The witch laughs. A pulse of heat through his left forearm follows.

"Try harder," he says with the most obnoxious grin he can produce, hoping she won't see through the bluff. The amulet's capacity is not unlimited. If she puts more force into whatever she just attempted to do —

Later he won't know what tipped him off. Not sound, because the fog that has risen around them swallows it all. Not motion, because he can't see anything past the wall of white. Maybe some tiny change in the witch's posture, maybe a glint of triumph in her eye, maybe just a hunter's instinct, sharpened by countless fights — but he leaps to the side and rolls away, and a flaming brazier hurtles past, shedding sparks in its wake, right through the spot he stood in a moment before.

The second brazier is harder to evade. McCree's fast, but he's not finished getting to his feet yet. He dodges with much less grace and one of the protruding iron spikes grazes his side hard enough to send him sprawling. He drops the crossbow, hissing, and it's for the better, because he can soften the impact of the landing with both hands that way — but then _two_ braziers come flying out of the fog at the same time, from two different directions, and he's barely got enough time to swear before he lunges again, in a desperate attempt to dodge them both.

Somehow, against all odds, he manages. He's flattened against the cobblestones and his side smarts like hell but he's dodged, he's whole, even though he's sure he just heard the unmistakable thud of metal against flesh —

_Hanzo_?

He scrabbles to his knees and turns, and freezes.

It's huge. Hulking. Clad in white like Hanzo was. Lit by the braziers it's effortlessly holding, one in each hand, like they're made of wood, not cast iron and like they're not _on fire_. It's got horns sprouting from its forehead and glowing eyes, and red markings on its face, glistening in the firelight like they're drawn with fresh blood —

It's a fucking _demon_.

It tosses the braziers aside. McCree shields his face against the burst of sparks and lowers his forearm to stare. The demon flexes its clawed hands. It's even wearing an archer's glove, just like Hanzo did.

McCree swallows the bile rising in his throat.

"Enough," the demon growls in a voice so deep McCree feels it in his sternum. "Leave."

The witch laughs shrilly, even though the demon towers over her, almost twice her size. "What are you doing? Playing with your food?" she mocks. She doesn't move when the demon takes a step towards her, but her fingers curl ever so slightly, as if she's really planning to fight it.

"Leave or I will destroy you." Its voice is not unlike Hanzo's, except a lot more gravelly, a lot deeper and _loud_. "This is your last warning."

"I don't fear you," she hisses.

The demon laughs quietly. The sound drips with enough malice that the witch takes half a step back, and McCree holds his breath. "You should," it says. "Because I have patience and I have time. I will not rest until I destroy you, and then I will find the place where you hid your soul and I will destroy it too. This I vow."

McCree doesn't have an inkling of magical talent, but even he can feel the weight of that oath as it settles in the silence around them.

The swirl of fog around the witch's feet tightens. The smile slips off her face. 

"You have already made your point," the demon adds, quieter now, almost softly, in a sudden change of tactics. "A blood price has been paid. Is this petty squabble worth your life?"

The witch chews on her lip, then suddenly raises her chin, still defiant. "Fine," she spits. "Enjoy your pets. I hope you choke on them."

She's putting on a brave face, but she's afraid now. Raised shoulders, tense posture, quick breath: the demon has gotten to her. They always do.

"You will not return."

"Go fuck yourself." The witch takes a step back, then squares her shoulders, turns her back to the demon and walks away. Only the stiff gait betrays her fear. Two steps, five, ten, and she's gone in the fog.

The demon takes a long breath, exhales a cloud of vapor and turns towards McCree. Towards its pet.

It didn't even bother denying the accusation. _Some monster hunter you are._ Gabriel would never let him live it down. Actually, that's not true: if Gabriel was around, he would've stopped McCree long before he got himself leashed by a demon.

He doesn't flinch when the demon's glowing eyes land on him, but it's a near thing. He stands his ground and forces himself to look instead, while he's still got enough of free will left to do it.

Milky white eyes, like a blind man's. Bluish-grey skin, like that of a drowned corpse. It's easily two heads taller than McCree, and probably twice as wide in the shoulders: _that explains the strength_ , whispers the analytical part of his mind, _all that power crammed into a body way too small_. Even the beautiful tattoo that coiled around Hanzo's arm is gone, replaced by some red, fanged, mad-eyed abomination, grimacing wildly in the flickering light of dying fires.

The demon stares at him with its dead, empty eyes, and something twists violently in McCree's chest, choking like rage, or maybe grief for a man that never existed.

"Are you hurt?" it asks.

There has to be one hell of a bruise blooming on his side already, but he's pretty sure his ribs are intact. "No," he replies curtly.

The demon looks away, then around, as if looking for something. Despite its size, it's still silent as a ghost when it walks. It crouches and picks something up off the ground, and when it stands up again, uncannily graceful, McCree's hat looks weirdly small between its clawed fingers.

He accepts the hat automatically when it's slapped against his chest, and refuses to flinch when a heavy hand lands on his shoulder. Grits his teeth when a huge, warm palm wraps itself around the nape of his neck.

The demon grins at him in a fanged parody of Hanzo's smile. "I hope your curiosity has been satisfied," it rumbles.

McCree wants nothing more than to turn around and run, run the hell away while he still can, but there's no point. "Yes," he says through his teeth instead.

The fanged smile fades and the hand lifts off his neck. "She won't be coming back," it says, taking a step back, and McCree takes a ragged breath. "Our work is done."

McCree has nothing to say to that. His head is empty except for the silent screaming.

The demon watches him for a while with those unblinking white eyes. "I would appreciate it if you kept this to yourself," it says finally.

McCree laughs bitterly. "Do I have a choice?"

"Yes." There's a strange new note to its voice, but its face remains blank. "You do."

There's no point exposing it anyway. Not if it's powerful enough to chug holy water and laugh. Not when there are no witnesses, not when McCree is the only one who could do anything about it — himself and Ana, but Ana knew, she fucking _knew_ , and she didn't say anything. There's no question of whose side she's on. McCree is the only one and he _can't_ , because somehow, despite all the precautions, the demon has gotten into his head.

Looks like he can still leave, at least, before he starts laughing or crying, or both, so that's what he does: he turns on his heel and marches through the dispersing fog towards the castle.

"I did not force you into anything," says a voice behind him.

It's Hanzo's voice again. McCree grits his teeth and doesn't slow down. Doesn't trust himself enough to risk looking at him — it — now.

"You are not a puppet. You never were."

There's an intensity to the demon's voice that reminds him of that first confrontation they had. That talk in a candle-lit corridor, when Hanzo said he wasn't going to hurt anyone, when McCree first thought about kissing him. _It_.

"Jesse."

McCree shakes his head jerkily, as if it can somehow help him forget, and keeps walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a good moment to say that the entire story came to be because of one single sketch [questionartbox](https://twitter.com/nekodorubox) posted on her Patreon. I loved the sketch so much that I commissioned a full picture based on it, and the picture kickstarted my imagination.
> 
> Fanart is an incredible source of inspiration. Artists who draw fanart, I love you all.
> 
> And the wonderful [foxish](https://twitter.com/kitsune2022) drew [a scene from this chapter](https://twitter.com/kitsune2022/status/1351347462271881217)!


	4. Chapter 4

Awakening comes late, and it's the kind of awful that usually happens after a night of drinking and bad decisions.

McCree squints blearily at the empty bottle on the floor next to the bed. Turns out he's had just the right amount of emergency moonshine left to cause a splitting headache while leaving the memories of last night perfectly intact. Preserved, one could say, in alcohol.

He also discovers right away that just because he can recall the realization of how badly he'd been outplayed with nauseating clarity, it doesn't mean he should.

Dragging himself out of bed feels harder than ever. He's cold and aching inside and out. An impressive bruise blooms across his right side, in case he needed more proof that last night wasn't just a really nasty nightmare. The flesh is tender to the touch, but he can breathe more or less freely, so nothing's broken; for a run-in with a witch, he got off easy. With a witch _and_ a demon, actually, except the demon chose to spare his life for some reason.

( _And save it_ , whispers a voice in the back of his mind. _Again_.)

Spare his life and, even more curiously, let him go, even though McCree finally knows its secret.

Things don't add up, but his head hurts twice as much as his ribs and he's hungry and nauseated at the same time, and thinking about the demon makes him think of Hanzo, which in turn makes him want to punch the wall. The very idea of food makes him feel ill, but there's no getting rid of the headache without it, and besides, it's best that he leaves the castle as soon as he can.

Breakfast, then. There's a risk he'll run into the demon, but he can always retreat and come back later.

There are no demons in the kitchen. The smell of soup doesn't make him feel worse, which is already a small victory. He forces the food down slowly, spoon by stomach-churning spoon, staring into distance. The image of the demon holding the burning braziers keeps coming back, unbidden. The transformation must have been immediate: he could swear that Hanzo still looked like a human after the first attack. He — _it_ — must have changed into its true form and leapt to intercept the braziers with incredible speed.

But why? Why defend him at the cost of revealing its secret? Why let him go afterwards? Did the demon lie about not manipulating him? And if it didn't, _why_?

He gets halfway through the soup before he has to put the spoon away, push a fist against his mouth and take a deep, uneven breath, fighting a wave of nausea that is only partially caused by the drinking.

 _You're going in circles. Stop and think,_ Gabriel would bark. _Recount what you know, then draw conclusions._

Facts, then: Hanzo is a demon, somehow, despite the holy water treatment he had no right to shrug off. A demon who fought at his side and saved his life at least twice. A demon who came to his bed. A demon he fell for all by his own damn self, there's no denying that anymore — unless it's somehow powerful enough to ignore the amulet, just like it ignored the holy water that should have burned it, even though it shouldn't be possible. But if it did charm McCree somehow, then why let go of his mind now?

If he closes his eyes, he can remember everything, the biting kisses and gentle touches, the smirks across the table and grins across the battlefield. He can still feel the weight of Hanzo's head resting on his shoulder and hear that quiet sigh. He was ready, in that strange moment, to disregard everything and either ask Hanzo to go south with him, or follow Hanzo wherever he was headed next. He would have if Hanzo asked for it. And now?

 _I am not here to harm anyone_ , Hanzo had said. That wasn't a lie, at least: he really didn't harm anyone. Not even the witch. No matter how hard he thinks about it, McCree can't recall a single instance of Hanzo lying.

Ana talked about other creatures she knew, about _good people_. Demons can't be "good people". That's nonsense.

Then again, as far as McCree was concerned until now, demons also couldn't stand the touch of holy water.

So, hypothetically, assuming that Hanzo did not lie, that everything he said and did was true… he cared about McCree enough to give away his secret to defend him.

And McCree turned his back on him.

But he's a _demon_.

…But he's also Hanzo, and the way he said McCree's name last night is the one thing McCree can't, won't think about.

"Is everything all right, sir?"

McCree remembers suddenly that he's in the kitchens, surrounded by people, and judging by the worried expression of the kitchenhand, he's making a spectacle of himself. "Everything's fine," he croaks, trying for a rueful smile. "I might've had too much to drink last night, that's all."

The concern on the kitchenhand's face gives way to sympathetic understanding. "I'll fetch you some pickle juice, sir," he says. "It's what his lordship always calls for after a feast. Best cure, sir."

"I'm no sir. Name's McCree. And thanks."

Ana is bound to have more effective means to deal with drink sickness… but she knew Hanzo was a demon and didn't think McCree deserved a warning. Besides, if Hanzo told her of what transpired last night, she might not be inclined to help anyway.

She and Jack must have already eaten. They did get to rest early last night, McCree supposes.

Hanzo didn't, though.

He's a demon. He probably doesn't need sleep. The written records of encounters with demons don't say anything about sleeping, and the ones they fought with Gabriel were very definitely awake.

At least he knows for sure now that demons do eat. Hanzo could show up in the kitchens any moment now, and McCree has no idea what might happen if he does; he doesn't even know if it's anger, guilt, regret or some explosive mixture of them all that's churning in his stomach right now. He should force down the rest of his soup, drink his disgusting pickle juice and leave before he has to find out.

Something makes him linger, though, even after the soup and pickle juice are long gone.

Maybe he just wants to see Hanzo's face. Everything will be easier if Hanzo looks at him with the cold disdain he'd leveled at the witch the night before.

* * *

Hanzo does not show up, and finally McCree runs out of excuses.

He goes to collect his payment from the steward, and discovers that sir Wilhelm insists on personally granting him the reward. It's a handsome sum, as was promised. The overjoyed lord once again invites him to stay for as long as he needs to. McCree is deeply grateful for the pickle juice, because he's not sure he'd manage to refuse with appropriate grace without it.

He runs into Ana and Jack on his way back to his chamber. Neither of them act like anything is out of the ordinary. The questions Ana asks about the encounter with the witch seem to indicate that Hanzo didn't tell them everything, after all, so McCree doesn't tell them everything either. They accept that Hanzo talked the witch into submission readily enough. The nausea has mostly passed but the headache stubbornly persists, and McCree thinks again about asking Ana for a remedy — but then he notices her casting a fleeting glance at his wrist, and his stomach threatens revolt all over again.

The amulet is gone. He remembers drunkenly flinging it in the general direction of the fire.

He excuses himself and walks back to his room as calmly as he can, with the metallic taste of fear in his mouth and blood rushing in his ears. It's gone, it has to be gone. Even drunk, McCree wouldn't miss a throw at something as large as the hearth. He doesn't know why it fills him with such dread. It doesn't matter either way, he won't need the amulet anymore, should in fact be happy to be rid of the reminder — but when he reaches his room and rushes in, and kneels in front of the cold hearth, the wave of relief makes him dizzy.

It's there. Almost undamaged. By some magical, impossible stroke of luck, it must have bounced off a log and fallen far enough from the fire that only one end of the leather cord is singed. He turns the amulet in shaky fingers, searching for damage, but even the weaving around the stones is intact, somehow — and with all his defenses down because of one stupid, useless stone trinket, he finally remembers.

Hanzo's voice has always been calm and steady, self-assured, the voice of someone accustomed to being listened to. It never wavered, never broke, not even in battle, not even when they shared pleasure together, until last night. Until the last word Hanzo uttered before McCree ran away.

McCree's given name. The first and last time Hanzo said it.

He pockets the amulet before he accidentally damages it and gets up, feeling twice heavier than before.

He's going to have to find Hanzo, wherever he's hiding. To talk with him. Ask questions. And… apologize, probably. No, definitely. Even if Hanzo tells him to go to hell.

* * *

He didn't have much luck searching for Hanzo before, and he doesn't fare any better now. He roams about the castle, checking all the places where Hanzo used to spend his free time, until he finally gathers the courage to knock on Hanzo's door.

No response. His hand hovers above the doorknob. He could just walk in and take the brunt of Hanzo's anger, if he's in there and unwilling to talk. It's very rude, of course, and even more ill-advised to barge into the room of a demon, much less one as powerful and angry as Hanzo must be.

McCree has never been the most polite or reasonable of people, so he pushes on the door.

The room is empty. Clean and neat, like it's never been occupied. McCree hovers at the threshold, taking all of it in, searching for details. There: ashes in the hearth, a crease in the bedding, a cloth tossed over the rim of a washbasin, still wet. Hanzo was here, and not long ago. It wasn't all just a fever dream. He's not here anymore, though, and McCree sets his jaw, refusing to panic. He has to be around the castle somewhere. Maybe he's taking a belated breakfast or collecting his payment, or supplying before the next step of his journey. He didn't just disappear into thin air.

And whatever Hanzo is up to, Ana should be in the know, having befriended him first. She is easy to find at least, playing a game of cards with Jack in the common rooms.

"Have you seen Hanzo?" McCree asks in lieu of a greeting, aware that he's as transparent as fine glass and finding that he cares very little about it.

Ana's mouth flattens in a thin, displeased line. She scrutinizes him for a while, and this time her gaze lingers on his left wrist; McCree fights the urge to hide it behind his back like a scolded child. Her expression settles finally into something that isn't unkind, at least. "He left," she says. "We said our goodbyes shortly after dawn. He seemed in a hurry to depart."

Jack folds his arms and leans back in his chair with an openly judgmental stare.

 _He left_. McCree swallows through the sudden dryness in his mouth. "Do you know where he was headed?"

Jack raises his eyebrows. McCree thinks briefly of punching him in the face.

"I do not. We haven't talked much." Ana pauses, watches him for a moment, then sighs. "I expect he would have gone south," she says in a gentler tone. "The winter is much milder in the southern reaches."

If he leaves now, he'll be a few hours behind Hanzo at most. Even a demon has to make camp at some point, to let the horse feed and rest. McCree is a decent tracker, and his mare is sturdy and well-rested; he should easily catch up unless the tracks get trampled. Not many people choose to travel long distances this late in the fall. His chances are good. 

Unless Hanzo makes purposeful effort to obscure his trail, that is.

"I have to go," he says. "It was an honor to work with both of you. Thank you. For everything."

This time Ana gives him a smile. "Good luck." She doesn't say _you'll need it_ , but the implication is clear. "If you ever need to contact me, ask about Shrike at any decent herbalist's shop. I'm sure we'll meet again someday."

"I hope you'll have become wiser by then," Jack mutters.

There's no hostility in his tone, and something about it reminds McCree of Gabriel so much that he really can't be angry about the words. "And goodbye to you too," he says instead, only a little pointedly, to get a grunt and a nod in response.

The habit of keeping his belongings ready to leave at a moment's notice pays off once again, and he sends another silent thanks to Gabriel, wherever he may be. The only detour he needs to make is a visit to the kitchens to buy supplies for the road. The news of victory must have spread throughout the castle, or maybe the lord has given an order to support him, because McCree receives a generous sack of food for free, with a side offer of more pickle juice from the helpful kitchenhand. The horse is clean, fed and raring to go, bored as she must have been of the lull in adventures, and despite having risen so late, McCree is ready to ride before noon.

Everything is fine until he reaches the crossroads at the far end of the castle grounds.

Hanzo could have taken the road leading south. It's the easiest and safest one, even without taking possible snows into account. But he'd also considered going west, and McCree had told him he was probably headed south. South or west: west if Hanzo wanted to avoid running into McCree again, south if he didn't.

Then again, he could have also predicted McCree's reasoning. He could have gone south, with the assumption that McCree would go west to chase him.

The horse snorts and sidesteps, and McCree takes a deep breath of crisp air. He could guess and second-guess and triple-guess himself to oblivion here, while Hanzo gets farther and farther away. "Thank you," he mutters, leaning forward to pat the horse's warm neck. When in doubt, toss a coin. He can always go back if he doesn't find a trail further down the road. Except he doesn't have a coin handy, all of them sit secure within the depths of his saddlebags — but he does have something else. It even makes sense, in a way.

"Don't laugh at me," he tells the horse, pulling off the glove and fishing Ana's amulet out of the pocket of his vest. "We'll go where the coral says. Or thereabouts."

The amulet weighs little and flies high, and for an irrational moment McCree is afraid he'll fail to catch it.

He doesn't fail. The coral points northwest; close enough. He pockets the amulet again and turns onto the western road, and that's when he notices the snowflakes.

"Oh, come on," he groans. It's just a few tiny specks of white, melting as soon as they hit the ground, but if the snow gets any heavier, it'll cover any tracks Hanzo may have left. If McCree doesn't find him before then, and before sunset…

…Well, sitting here panicking certainly won't help either, so he checks once again that the amulet is snug and secure, and nudges the horse into a trot.

The road is as trampled as one could expect, but mostly by carts, and there are only a few tracks that belong to riding horses. McCree spots a promising one not far from the crossroads. It's fresh and free of frost, with dirt around the hoof prints kicked up like the rider was in a hurry. It's a good sign: if it was Hanzo, then he can't maintain this pace for long, or he'll ride down the horse. McCree breathes easier and lets his shoulders loosen for what feels like the first time since he woke up.

The calm doesn't last long: the trail changes suddenly not even half a mile later. The rider slowed down, then stopped, and the horse wasn't happy with the abrupt change of pace; McCree can almost see it as it happened, Hanzo frowning at whatever caused him to halt while the horse impatiently danced in place. There's nothing around that he can see which would warrant a sudden stop. Something wrong with the horse?…

It takes him way too long to realize that the tracks don't continue forward. He stares, dumbfounded, at the hoof prints cutting sharply left.

He's sure by now that it's Hanzo, although he has no idea why, just as he has no idea why Hanzo would get off the road to ride into a narrow path in the thankfully sparse forest. At least the floor is clear of snow and free of obstacles larger than a stray fallen branch. The horse doesn't like it regardless; McCree mutters apologies as he urges her forward. There's no choice but to follow.

He realizes what happened soon enough and nearly laughs, strangely relieved.

Hanzo _changed his mind_. He changed his mind for whatever reason, and took a shortcut path leading towards the southern road. The change of direction could have been because of any number of reasons, good or bad, but it loosens the tight-wound knot in McCree's chest anyway. It means Hanzo hesitated, and if he hesitated, then maybe not all is lost.

* * *

Hours later, he finds a spot where Hanzo must have stopped, presumably to let his horse rest. It's empty. The small fire has been destroyed thoroughly enough that he can't tell how long it's been, and unease starts gnawing at his insides again. He's chasing a demon, who might have as much power over animals as he has over humans. Who might not care about his horse as much as a human would do. If the breaks he takes are shorter than McCree's —

The thought withers quickly under a wave of guilt: demon or not, Hanzo has been anything but cruel. Besides, he did stop here, and there's a bunch of fresh horse dung and a few scattered grains under a nearby tree, clear signs that he did allow his horse food and rest. As long as McCree keeps his breaks short and lets the horse pick her own pace, he should catch up. 

There are fresh footprints in the dirt near the ashes, too. If only he'd taken notice of the soles of Hanzo's boots when he had the chance. The size and depth match Hanzo's height and weight, but it would be nice to know for sure that McCree's not chasing someone who happened to be passing by, while Hanzo himself disappears into the unknown.

Still, the footprints _could_ be Hanzo's, and it's enough to lift his spirits a little. He doesn't light a fire, just sits on a nearby stump, treats himself to a chunk of bread and a wedge of cheese, and wills the horse to recover quickly. The poor girl doesn't deserve this treatment, and he makes it up to her as best he can, rubs her neck and lets her steal some of the bread, and feeds her a nice crunchy apple too, murmuring promises of a longer rest.

The snow has stopped for now, but the clouds are getting darker and heavier, looming dangerously low above the tree canopies. McCree's not a pious man, but he mouths a silent prayer to anyone that would listen as he mounts up.

The prayer goes unheard, as usual. He has to admit defeat when the forest around him starts growing noticeably darker. The horse is exhausted and so is he, and the occasional twinges from his ribs have melted into one persistent ache a good while ago. He can't let dusk catch him on the road. The map he'd copied at the castle shows no villages along the road that he could reach safely before sundown, so he rubs his tired eyes and focuses on finding a good spot for a camp.

He comes across one quickly enough to make him think that maybe there is someone up there listening to all the prayers. A firebreak cuts through the forest ahead, clean and wide enough to fit a lumber cart, and a perfect opportunity to safely get off the road. It's a chance to get a good fire going, too, before he forgets how it feels to be warm.

And most importantly, whoever he's been following has come to the same conclusion and turned into the firebreak, presumably to make camp as well.

It still doesn't have to be Hanzo. McCree could have made a a mistake, could have been tracking someone else who happened to be in the same place at the same time. He's reluctant to believe even after he sees a horse and a silhouette of a man ahead. The height matches Hanzo's, but the cloak and the bundle of firewood he's is carrying make it difficult to see much more.

The traveler pauses, then puts the firewood down and turns towards him — and McCree knows the moment he sees that movement, graceful and uncannily quick.

He lets out the breath he's been holding in an unsteady exhale. Two more steps, and the amulet in his forearm wakes up.

Hanzo takes off the hood and stands still, watching him approach. He's unarmed. The bow and the quiver rest against his saddlebags some distance away. Not that it matters: he could probably retrieve the bow and shoot well before any danger reached him.

The horse stops without a cue, as if she's sensed her rider's sudden apprehension.

"I will defend myself if I must," Hanzo says evenly, "but I would rather not have to."

The tension in his posture is painfully familiar. There's no disdain McCree half expected to hear, but this awful, flat monotone is possibly even worse. McCree tries to swallow, but his mouth is dry as a desert. "I'm not here to fight," he rasps.

A beat of silence. Hanzo's mouth twists in a scoff. "What kind of a monster hunter does that make you?"

McCree wants to be indignant, to ask if Hanzo really thinks he'd have come all the way here just to attack him — but last night having ended like it did, he'd rather not hear Hanzo say 'yes'. Besides, he'll take mockery over that flat tone any day. "The kind that's not here on business," he says finally, trying for levity and falling painfully short.

The expression on Hanzo's face is undecipherable in the deepening twilight. At least the tension slowly bleeds out of his stance, until finally he huffs, drops to one knee and starts building a fire.

As reactions go, this is already better than several scenarios McCree had time to construct in his head. He's alive, for one thing, and Hanzo didn't immediately chase him off either. He figures he's allowed to dismount, at least. It goes a lot less smoothly than it ought to, because a day in the saddle didn't do his ribs any favors, and then he discovers he's loath to look away, as if Hanzo might disappear into thin air the moment he does. Stupid. Hanzo almost catches him on it, too; he raises his head right as McCree finally manages to turn around.

He imagines he can feel Hanzo's eyes on his back the whole time he secures the reins to a tree. He doesn't dare to unsaddle the horse, not yet. "I'm sorry," he murmurs into her mane for what feels like a hundredth time today.

Hanzo isn't looking at him when he turns around, but he does glance up from his task right after, before McCree can take a step towards the campfire. "Let that poor animal rest, McCree," he says coolly.

It's an unspoken invitation to share the fire for the night. Basic hospitality doesn't mean forgiveness, but it loosens the tight coil of dread in McCree's chest regardless.

By the time he's tended to the horse and left her with a bag of fodder, and carried the saddlebags closer to the center of the camp, Hanzo has shed the cloak entirely and managed to get a decent fire going. He's frowning at the flames like he's trying to intimidate them into growing faster, and his mouth is flattened into a thin line, corners turned down. It's not a look McCree has seen before. He's seen Hanzo pensive, seen him smile and laugh, snarl in battle and grimace with impatience at a council, even saw him angry once — but this is new, and he hates it.

He spreads a blanket on the ground, drops the sack of food onto it and sits down gingerly, trying not to stretch the bruised side too much.

"You're injured."

Of course he would notice. "I'm fine," McCree says, pulling the sack closer.

"Raise your right arm, then."

McCree sighs. "It's just a bit of bruising. Nothing's broken."

"You should have stayed at the castle to recover."

"Wasn't really an option. Look, it's going to smart for a day or two, that's all. Trust me, I'm an expert on bruises." 

Hanzo doesn't argue further. McCree reaches into the sack: if he's hungry, then Hanzo must be hungry too, and while food probably won't put a smile on his face, at least it won't make his mood any worse. He spreads out a peace offering on the edge of the blanket: cold meats, sausages, cheese, apples, what remains of the bread. "Got plenty to share if you're hungry," he announces, and then there's nothing left to do but fill his own stomach, watch the fire grow under Hanzo's hands and wait.

Hanzo arranges the last piece of wood to his satisfaction and dusts off his hands. His gaze slides briefly over the food before focusing on McCree, and McCree swallows under the silent scrutiny.

"Why are you here?"

Hanzo doesn't look or sound furious. There's no mockery, no disdain. He just seems… tired. A part of McCree desperately wants to do something about it, just as another part shrivels in guilt.

"Well. You left," he starts, realizing a little too late that he has no idea how to continue the sentence.

Hanzo shrugs and stands up. "My services were no longer needed," he says, turning away.

For a panicked moment McCree thinks he's going to leave, only to realize that Hanzo is bringing his own blanket to the fire. He didn't really expect Hanzo to join him, but the knot in his stomach tightens anyway. At least Hanzo decides to sit down near the food instead of the opposite side of the fire: still out of reach, but not as far away as he could have. Small victories.

McCree sighs. "Thought you'd at least say goodbye."

Hanzo considers the food briefly before reaching for a chicken leg. "I did," he says, examining it critically. "To those who were likely to want my goodbyes."

McCree just nods: he both deserved and expected that response. "You'd be surprised," he mutters.

"Would I?"

The amulet lurches so hard McCree's forearm briefly goes numb. There are no grisly transformations, no magical effects, just a shiver in the air, like on a very hot day: one moment Hanzo is giving him a flat look, the next he's being stared at by a demon.

The memories didn't lie, not exactly. He's as huge as McCree remembered him. There's the grey skin and red markings and horns, and glowing white eyes, and nails that are way too sharp and too long… but now that it's not dark and McCree can more or less calmly look his fill, and now that he's not trying to avoid certain death, everything is also different.

Because now it's a lot less demon, a lot more Hanzo somehow. It's obviously Hanzo's face, just larger, with slightly rougher features. It's still his mouth and his nose. His eyebrows and his hair, and meticulously groomed beard. Even the grey skin isn't quite as corpselike as it seemed before. The eyes… well, the eyes are disconcerting as hell, but overall he's even still handsome, if in a different way, one McCree doesn't feel capable of analyzing right now.

He wonders suddenly if Hanzo's hair still smells of incense when he's like this, and he has to concentrate to remember what the question was. "Yes," he says, heart hammering. "Not that you had a reason to believe it."

"Very well. Go on, then." Fangs flash when Hanzo bites into the chicken thigh, now ridiculously tiny between his fingers, and rips a chunk off with a sharp jerk of his head. Bone crunches between his teeth: he's showing off. It makes the display a lot less scary than intended.

It's still very distracting, though, and the wildly vibrating amulet doesn't help. "Go on what?" McCree asks weakly.

"Say your goodbyes."

McCree opens his mouth and closes it. This conversation is not going well at all. A goodbye is the last thing he wants to say right now.

Hanzo sighs so heavily that the flames in front of him waver. "Why are you here, really?" he asks in that strange, deep voice.

 _I'm sorry,_ McCree wants to say. _I screwed up._ "Just wanted to talk," is what he manages instead. It's all he can do not to wince.

"About what?"

McCree hates that flat tone about as much as he deserves it. He needs to fix this, and for that he needs to focus, and the stupid amulet really doesn't help. "Give me a moment," he mutters, reaching for his pocket. He doesn't dare look at Hanzo while he digs out Ana's stone charm and wraps it around his wrist; only after it's securely tied in its place does he raise his eyes. It's hard to tell for sure, but Hanzo's glowing gaze seems fixed on his hand. "Couldn't think with that thing going off," he explains.

Hanzo looks away, lobs what remains of the chicken bone into the fire and licks his clawed fingers. Something about the sight sends a shiver down McCree's back.

It's almost dark now. The fire gives off enough warmth to ward off the cold, and enough light to highlight every detail of Hanzo's new face. The longer they sit here, the more absurd McCree's previous fear feels: it's so clear now that it's still Hanzo, especially when he briefly closes his distracting eyes. Even though he's suddenly huge. McCree is taller than most people, but next to Hanzo's new frame he's practically small; if they were to huddle together for warmth now, they would have to switch places. He'd drown in the embrace of those huge arms. It's a strange thought, and even stranger for how much McCree suddenly wants it. Not even for the warmth, but for the comfort, even if it were to be a pale shadow of last night. 

This is so stupid. They both could have it, right now, if McCree didn't screw up. That and everything else: the companionship, in battle and out. The talking. The nights together.

The frustration does what remorse could not. "I'm sorry," he says. It's an unexpected relief, like ripping an itching scab off a wound. Hanzo doesn't look at him, doesn't really react at all except for a small tilt of his head, but that's fine, now that he's started, McCree can just keep talking. "That's why I'm here, to say I'm sorry, for being a cockhead last night. And to thank you for saving my ass once again."

Hanzo's huge shoulders rise in a shrug. "You are a hunter. It was a reasonable reaction to the sight of a demon."

"A demon, maybe, but not you."

"I _am_ a demon."

McCree would really rather take anger over whatever this is, and it's starting to grate on his nerves. "Yes, I noticed," he snaps. Hanzo's eyebrows rise at the tone: good. Maybe he'll at least raise his voice or something. "But you're also you."

"An astute observation."

And just like that, the anger is gone, leaving McCree grasping for words. He's not a big speaker, but it's never been _this_ hard before. He takes a long breath, exhales. "Listen, I just didn't expect you to be a demon after the whole, you know, holy water thing. Caught me by surprise."

Hanzo's mouth twitches in a painfully familiar way.

"And I panicked, I guess? I'd say I wasn't thinking clearly, but there wasn't much thinking happening at all, to be honest." Hanzo refuses to look at him directly, and his face is back to that grim, tight-lipped expression, so McCree barrels on, whatever comes to his tongue, anything but the silence again. "How did you do it, by the way? The holy water thing. There's no way it didn't hurt. I've seen a demon's skin melt from so much as touching it."

Hanzo huffs. "Your god is not the only one, no matter what your priests tell you," he says, still looking into the fire. "I come from a land that lies very far from here, and I may have left, but I'm still bound to its gods. Your god has no power over me. Neither do his blessings."

McCree can do nothing but stare. The books never mentioned this. Even Gabriel never said anything about it. Just how far away did Hanzo come from?

"It was a good attempt, though," Hanzo adds after a while. "You were just poorly informed."

There it is, finally: a shadow of a smirk, somehow just as attractive on a mouth hiding a set of very sharp teeth, and McCree has never been happier to be made fun of before. "There's nothing in the books about it," he protests, maybe exaggerating the outrage a little, in hope that the smirk deepens — but no, it's gone already, and Hanzo's face is carefully blank again.

"It would seem you need to find better books. Hopefully they will also include more accurate depictions of dragons."

There's nothing left to say, really. The apology is out, the thanks made, but Hanzo still won't look at him, and he's still sitting far outside McCree's reach. McCree has no idea how to close that gap or how to make him smile again. Even the frustration that fueled him has waned into exhaustion.

 _Maybe he just doesn't want you around anymore,_ whispers an insidious thought. _Maybe it was always meant to end this way_.

The night settles slowly around them. The forest whispers, undisturbed by their presence: a rustle in the underbrush, a soft flap of wings, a hoot of an owl nearby. The fire crackles soothingly. So similar to last night, and so different. The strange moment in the guardhouse feels like it happened a thousand years ago.

When Hanzo finally turns his head, McCree knows he's being looked at, even despite the white eyes.

He's never seen one with eyes like these before. Most of the demons he'd fought were black-eyed. One had sickly yellowish-green irises to match the color of its skin. One had eyes like those of a snake, and a forked tongue too. All of them had horns. Most chose to wear human clothes, usually the richest they could obtain. Some sharpened their claws for battle, some only wielded magic, and some used human weapons. Some were beautiful, some ugly as sin, and all of them were evil.

He realizes he hasn't been paying attention to his own expression when Hanzo breaks eye contact first. _Shit_. "You're not much like other demons, you know," he says quickly. The last thing he needs now is Hanzo thinking that any face he might have pulled was about him. "The ones I had the displeasure to meet, anyway."

Hanzo's hum sounds different in this new, deep voice, but it's just as vague as before. "Am I?"

"Yes," McCree says forcefully. "You didn't try to kill me, for a start."

"There was no need to."

"Hasn't stopped the other demons."

"I could still kill you."

The threat is delivered in the same calm, even tone, and it should be menacing, except it doesn't work, so much that McCree is surprised by it. "Sure you could. But you won't," he says with certainty that is probably unwarranted. "You keep doing the opposite, for some reason. Killing me now defeats the point of rescuing my ass earlier."

"I could have changed my mind —"

"Oh, come on now."

It's probably unwise to interrupt a demon or to provoke him. It's definitely unwise is to speak as loudly as McCree realizes he just did; his voice must have carried half a mile in every direction. Good thing there can't possibly be anything in this forest that's more dangerous than his present company, and the company not only doesn't deliver on the threats, but stops talking or moving altogether.

He watches the shadows dance on Hanzo's face. The line of his nose, sharp in the firelight. The cut of his cheekbones. The tiny shadows cast by his eyelashes. The red markings look like tattoos; maybe they are tattoos, although the edges are too crisp, the color too even. Either way, they certainly don't look like they're drawn in blood. What the hell was he thinking last night?

Hanzo finally moves: adjusts his position, glances at the food, looks in McCree's direction, then back at the fire. "Very well," he sighs. "I accept the apology."

An unspoken "now what?" hangs in the air. There are a dozen things McCree could say, and all of them would feel like ripping his heart out for the world to see. He wonders if Hanzo can hear his pulse. It's almost a shame if he can't; hell, for the first time in his life McCree almost regrets the mind-shielding amulet embedded deep in his hand. If Hanzo could read his thoughts, then maybe he wouldn't have to figure out what to say next.

"Guess now I have to make it up to you," he says finally. Even that feels dangerously close to a confession of some sort, so he makes his tone deliberately light.

"No need."

"Come on. I'm serious. Anything you want."

He's tired and not at his sharpest, and he realizes what he said a moment too late. It's not a wise offer to make to a demon. Actually, it's something one should never _ever_ say to a demon, on about the same level of suicidal stupidity as inviting a demon past the threshold of one's house — but he hasn't regretted inviting Hanzo in, and besides, the words are already out.

He does break out in goosebumps, though. Another iron rule broken without hesitation. Falling for someone has never made him this stupid before.

"Watch what you're offering, and to whom," Hanzo says flatly.

The words are laced with unspoken threat, and somehow only make McCree feel safer. "Anything you want," he replies deliberately. The goosebumps aren't all that unpleasant, either.

Hanzo turns his head slowly and stares at him for a moment, and then… something happens.

Suddenly everything is different, even though nothing changes at all. Hanzo is still the same demon, same features, same size, but he was kind of _handsome_ just a moment ago, McCree remembers that little hot twist of a realization very well, and now — now the demon _looms_ , somehow, even though he hasn't moved at all. He's huge, terrifying and ugly, with corpselike skin and bloody markings and wicked horns. It's yesterday night all over again… except this time McCree's not scared.

Well, _mostly_. Rationally, he's not afraid. A small, animal part of him shrinks in primal fear, like a mouse at the sight of an owl. He might have taken an involuntary step back if he was standing. Good thing he's not.

Even the forest falls deathly silent, as if every voice of its quiet song was suddenly cut short.

"You should be more careful with your words," Hanzo says in the ringing silence. Whatever just happened changed his voice, too. It's a lot closer to last night's growl, and somehow menacing, even though — oh.

Oh. _That's_ what happened.

That's what he did last night. That's what he's doing right now.

Even that deep, instinctive fear fades in the face of the realization of how incredibly _stupid_ McCree had been. He almost laughs, except he's pretty sure Hanzo would not appreciate that, and besides, he doesn't want Hanzo to think he's lost his mind. "I know what I said," he replies instead, looking right into the glowing eyes of a monster and trying not to grin like a madman.

Hanzo bares his teeth. They seem a lot sharper than before. "Don't play with fire, hunter."

McCree gives in and grins at him. "I don't fear you," he says, giddy with the truth of it.

He doesn't wait to see what new way of scaring him off Hanzo comes up with next. He gets up with a wince, drops his hat onto the blanket and steps around it instead. Funny how he thought Hanzo was sitting so far away, when all he needs to cover that distance are three strides.

Hanzo twitches in what McCree is pretty sure is an aborted attempt to recoil. He'd laugh at the role reversal if he wasn't a bit short of breath.

Turns out he can't really bend the way he planned, now that the stiffness has set in on top of the ache, so he kneels ungracefully at Hanzo's side instead. His palm fits differently against Hanzo's face now, but the scrape of a beard and the warmth of the skin under his fingers are the same. Hanzo sucks in a hissing breath and stays still as a statue, but his head tips obediently under the guiding pressure, and there's a puff of hot air against McCree's lips and a tremor under his fingers before their mouths meet.

The kiss is strange, familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. It's probably the softest kiss of McCree's life, with a seven foot tall demon, no less. It tastes of chicken, too. There's laughter bubbling in his chest, but he's also about to choke up with the strangest mixture of relief and joy, so he breaks away, takes a deep breath and presses his forehead against Hanzo's, and waits for his heart to stop trying to beat out of his chest.

"I fear you may have missed the point of your profession," Hanzo says quietly, eyes still closed.

"You're one to talk," McCree murmurs fondly, smothering any possible ripostes with another kiss, not quite so chaste this time. Hanzo's response is a lot less restrained, too: there's suddenly a hand splayed on McCree's lower back, probably meant to support him but only making it harder to keep balance, and another wrapped around the back of his thigh, warm through the fabric of his trousers — and when he runs his tongue against a very sharp canine, Hanzo makes another of his growling noises and pulls him sharply forward, into his lap.

The idea is great and McCree would want nothing more, except his bruised ribs protest just as sharply against the treatment, and he breaks the kiss with a wince and an involuntary hiss. He regrets it immediately, but it's too late: Hanzo's hands have already lifted off his body, his monstrous face twisted into a grimace that is probably concern, except it's hard to tell with whatever magic still hangs about him.

"You can drop the glamour now," McCree says, grinning despite the ache. He reaches for one large palm and sets it firmly against his thigh again. "And I'm fine. Nothing to worry about."

"It's not a glamour," Hanzo mutters, still frowning.

"Aura, then. Scary spell. Whatever."

It's fascinating to watch it happen again, in reverse: nothing changes at all, but somehow all the terrifying things don't look all that scary anymore. "You really are frighteningly ignorant," Hanzo says flatly. "Show me your injuries."

McCree opens his mouth to protest, but Hanzo unceremoniously shoves him off to the side and gets up on one knee, and being towered over this way is not something he has ever imagined, not to mention experienced — and he forgets what he was going say even before clawed fingers tug on the buckles of his vest.

He bats the hands away. "I _told_ you, it's just — alright, fine, I'll show you. Pushy bastard."

"Good," Hanzo says smugly. McCree is almost grateful for the ache and the cold air biting at his exposed skin: Hanzo is definitely back to handsome now, and the unexpected combination of _large_ and _handsome_ and _dangerous_ is doing strange things both to McCree's thoughts and his body.

"If this is 'just a bruise' to you, then I worry about your survival instincts," Hanzo says, frowning, after McCree pulls his shirt up.

McCree cranes his neck to see, but the bruising doesn't really look any worse than it did in the morning. "Considering who's poking at my ribs right now," he says, wincing under Hanzo's prodding, "I think a few bruises are the least of my problems."

It's getting easier to read those glowing eyes. Right now, for example, he's pretty sure he's getting a flat stare. "Not broken, but you shouldn't have spent the day in a saddle." Hanzo stands up. "I have a salve that should help. Wait here."

"We've already talked about this!" McCree shouts after him, but Hanzo ignores him, of course, so he leans back on his elbows and sighs, looking at the starless sky.

Jesse McCree, a monster hunter, fallen for the most dangerous monster of all. _Bet you didn't see that coming, huh. Hope you're alive somewhere and not rolling in your grave._

Hanzo takes his time searching for the promised salve, and neither the warmth of the fire nor the memory of his touch can ward off the cold for long. McCree shivers and considers at least pulling his shirt down. He'd have to sit up for it, though, and now that he's mostly flat he's not really inclined to move, especially that Hanzo will probably reappear immediately after he does.

At least it's not raining or snowing, and the ground is dry enough that the moisture hasn't soaked through the blanket, and he's managed to patch things up. For now.

He turns his head to check what's taking Hanzo so long and startles: he's right there, a few steps away, standing still and silent like a creepy shadow with glowing eyes. "Something wrong?" he asks, pushing himself up.

Hanzo just shakes his head and walks over to kneel at his side, a wry smile on his face. "You painted an appealing picture," he says, unwrapping the jar in his hands.

Right. Prone on the ground with his shirt up to his chin is… probably a good look. Maybe? He tries to imagine Hanzo in the same position and yes, definitely a good look, in either of Hanzo's forms, and whoa, where did _that_ thought come from —

"Fuck, that's cold," he gasps, any indecent thoughts scattering.

The ointment is freezing cold and smells of sage and pine. McCree could pull the jar out of Hanzo's hand and tend to himself just fine, but after the initial shock the touch feels too good to protest. Besides, he's tired and a little battered, and it's strange to be touched so gently by those big, clawed, scarred hands.

Wait a moment. Scarred?

He looks up, at Hanzo's focused face, and sure enough, there's a small scar just under his left eyebrow, and another hidden in his beard, just barely visible in the firelight. And his hands are much like McCree's, maybe even more: each a map of countless nicks and cuts, like a diary of a mercenary life.

"Is this where all your wounds go?" he asks.

"What?"

"The scars. Your wounds healed without a trace earlier."

"Oh. No." Hanzo doesn't look up, rubbing the salve into his skin in careful circles. "I'm just not as dedicated to maintaining the appearance of this body, for reasons that should be obvious, I hope."

"Appearance? Wait. You heal your human body… to _look better_?"

"It's a lot more fragile, I can't neglect wounds without consequences."

McCree is pretty sure his entire side has been thoroughly treated by now, but Hanzo still doesn't look up. Is it just shadow or is he _blushing_? "Bullshit," he says. "You don't have a single scar on your human body. Not a scratch. I checked. That's nothing to do with fragility."

Hanzo sighs irritably and glances up, and yes, his face is definitely darker than it was before. "Fine. I suppose I am vain, then."

"That's…" McCree has already accepted a staggering amount of change to his worldview, and he's not sure he can handle a demon being _adorable_. "That's fine, but you really should keep a few scars. You're a mercenary. The smooth skin is suspicious as hell."

"It hasn't been a problem so far."

"Guess you haven't bedded anyone observant."

"I guess I have not," Hanzo agrees, a smile tugging at a corner of his mouth, and to hell with McCree's ribs, he can't resist sitting up and reaching for Hanzo to pull him into an awkward kiss. Even if he regrets it immediately. Even if Hanzo laughs at his misfortune afterwards.

* * *

Hanzo dismisses his offer to keep watch first, claiming that he doesn't need much sleep in this form, and McCree is too tired to argue. Too tired to think, too tired to ask Hanzo the questions that need to be asked. Only after he crawls into his bedroll and closes his eyes, the fear gets to him and starts gnawing: there's a chance he'll wake up alone next to a cold fire. Hanzo didn't say he planned to spend the whole night at this camp, after all.

He opens his eyes and lifts the edge of the roll. Hanzo is sitting right next to him, and all he can see is one outstretched leg, but it's reassuring enough. Hanzo is here, and even if he intends to continue his journey alone, he won't just leave without waking him up.

Except he did this morning… but he had a good reason to, and this time McCree managed not to be an asshole, not to his knowledge at least.

He sighs and closes his eyes again. At least it's not too cold to sleep in the open, and he's not hungry, and he's got the best protection he could wish for.

He should have asked the question earlier, when moods were high, but he failed to gather the courage in time and then Hanzo grew pensive, and exhaustion caught up with him, and he told himself, tomorrow. Tomorrow he'll ask Hanzo if he wants to travel together for a while. He's mended things, offered his apologies, so everything should be back to what it was the day before. Right?

Well, except Hanzo is a demon now, and when all is said and done, McCree's still a hunter.

It was Hanzo who started it all, though, and he knew who McCree was from the beginning.

On the other hand, he definitely didn't mean for it to _last_.

"Jesse."

Even now, his heartbeat picks up at the sound of Hanzo saying his name. He sticks his head out of the bedroll enough to look up. "What?"

"Sleep," Hanzo says unhelpfully.

Those glowing eyes are really going to take some getting used to. Assuming there will be a need for it in the first place.

"I'm trying," he mutters.

Sooner or later, the exhaustion alone will drag him under. Or so he hopes — but his body aches and he can't find a position comfortable enough, and every time Hanzo moves his body snaps into alertness on pure instinct, and above all, he can't stop _thinking_. It's shaping up to be one of those nights. Usually he'd be reaching for a bottle at this point… but the bottle is empty, too.

He tries to shift again, and once again his ribs say no. He's sleeping on this side or not at all.

Hanzo gets up and starts moving about the camp. Demons have to piss too, McCree supposes. He's making a lot of unnecessary noise all of a sudden, considering how silently he can move. Maybe he's doing it on purpose, for McCree's sake.

Something heavy — a blanket? — suddenly lands on top of his bedroll, and McCree nearly jumps out of his skin. "What the hell?" he demands, sitting up, and sure enough, Hanzo stands above him, eyeing critically his own unrolled bedroll that he just tossed over McCree's. "What are you _doing_ ," he asks again, less angry and more confused now, because it's a nice gesture, but why? His own bedroll is fine. It's not the cold that keeps him awake, and he opens his mouth to tell Hanzo as such, and shuts it when Hanzo peels both layers away, lowers himself to the ground at his side and throws the combined bedroll over them both.

McCree's bedroll wouldn't fit one well built man and one very large demon. Two are just enough. Hanzo reaches around him to tuck the edges in, wriggles a little more, trying to find space for his arms, then finally stops moving, a solid wall of warmth pressed all along McCree's back — and McCree's still too stunned to say anything.

He opens and closes his mouth a few times before he comes up with something sensible. "You were supposed to keep watch," he says weakly.

"I can stay awake," Hanzo rumbles behind him. "And I will hear anything larger than a mouse if it tries to get close, asleep or not." He shifts again; he's so stupidly big that he can comfortably stretch an arm out above McCree's head. A heavy hand rests carefully on McCree's hip. "How is your side?"

McCree closes his eyes. "It's fine," he murmurs.

"Then sleep."

He's warm and the double bedroll is a pleasant, grounding weight. Hanzo's hand on his hip feels like an anchor and a promise. There's no choice but to give in. 

* * *

He guesses he shouldn't be surprised when he wakes up in the morning, with the sun.

"You were supposed to wake me up," he croaks.

"I don't recall any such agreement," a deep voice rumbles behind him.

Hanzo doesn't sound sleepy. McCree opens his mouth to ask whether he stayed awake all night, then decides there's no point. Hanzo's arm reaches over him and lifts the flap of the bedroll, letting the morning chill into their snug pocket of warmth, and McCree winces and sits up.

His ribs remain mostly silent, even when he turns to look at Hanzo. The salve really did work. That, or Hanzo's healing abilities aren't limited to himself. Everything is possible at this point.

Glowing eyes blink at him in the faint, grey light of dawn. Definitely the strangest awakening he's had. "Good morning," he says, feeling a little absurd.

"Good morning," Hanzo echoes very seriously.

McCree hesitates, unsure what to do. He can't recall ever waking up in a bed with a lover, let alone in the middle of a forest with a seven foot tall lover with horns and sharp teeth. The realization that Hanzo can probably smell his putrid morning breath solves his dilemma; he springs to his feet with enough haste that he nearly trips over the bedroll.

He walks an extra distance away from the camp to relieve himself, too, mindful of Hanzo's exceptional senses.

When he returns, Hanzo is human again, busy thoroughly destroying the remnants of the campfire. McCree wordlessly sets to his own tasks. The silence isn't uncomfortable, but the question still hangs above them, like a shadow growing with every minute they're awake — or maybe it's just McCree and his stupid, stubborn fear. They eat a quick morning meal and tend to the horses, exchanging maybe a dozen words through it all, until everything that needed to be done is done, and the time is up. Either he asks the question now, or never.

He tightens the girth and pats the horse's neck, takes a breath and turns around like a prisoner about to face the gallows, just in time to see Hanzo mount up.

"South, then?" Hanzo asks casually.

McCree stares at him, dumbstruck.

"Or are you planning to stay here?" Hanzo raises his eyebrows, a picture of ease, like it's never even occurred to him that there could be any other outcome.

McCree doesn't know whether to be mad or happy. Both, maybe. There's also a chance that this whole situation is going to give him apoplexy, because it can't be healthy to have so many conflicting feelings at the same time, and his heart is hammering so hard he could swear he can feel it bouncing off his armor.

One more moment of speechlessness and he sees it: a crack in Hanzo's poise. A flash of unease before he schools his features back into comfortable neutrality.

Happy, then. Definitely happy. Maybe a tiny bit mad, with just a drop of spiteful satisfaction, because McCree is no saint. "You forgot something," he says with a smirk. "Come on. Get off the horse."

Hanzo watches him for a moment, definitely uneasy now, but at least he doesn't argue. McCree is already walking by the time he slides off the horse, and his graceful dismount finishes in an ungraceful stumble when McCree pulls him forward.

"What are you —"

McCree kisses him the best he knows how. Puts everything he's been feeling into it: the fondness and the worry, and desire, and joy, and the emotion he wouldn't dare name for how short they've known each other, not yet. Hanzo catches on quick but McCree doesn't let him take over, keeps pushing until Hanzo gives in, relaxes with a quiet grunt and lets him lead for once.

He looks a lot less poised when McCree finally lets him go, too. There's color rising over his cheekbones and he's blinking, not quite dazed, but definitely shaken out of his eternal self-assuredness. 

" _Now_ we can go," McCree says; he's trying for solemn, but he's feeling too smug and sadly, he's not _that_ good of an actor. "South, or wherever you want."

He manages to take maybe half a step backwards before he's yanked back in by the collar.

"South," Hanzo announces a while later, because of course he has to have the last word.

McCree swings into the saddle, takes in his victorious smirk and smirks right back. Adds a tip of the hat, too, just to take a bit of that last word back.

He's not afraid of the winter anymore. He might actually be looking forward to it, now.

  



End file.
